This Isn't The First Time
by gustin puckerman
Summary: It took her a second to confirm that Captain America's case was going to be a large pain in her ass. Or Steve and Maria's encounters throughout everything, and how they unravel. ― developing Steve/Maria. Now updated.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairings**: Developing Steve/Maria.  
**Word(s)**: 3,780 words.  
**Note**: I'm bored and stuff was written down. Might have a continuation.

**Musically Inspired**: "_Babel_" by Mumford & Sons.

* * *

**This Isn't The First Time**

* * *

Maria was there when they pulled Captain America out of the ice.

She hated the cold ― _hated_ it, reminded her of the mission where she'd been MIA for six months, trapped in a cell, left her to freeze to death ― but orders had been issued, and so Maria Hill travelled out to the Arctic and watched as the medical support tried to keep a steady pulse on a man that looked way better than he should have for someone who's supposedly been in a death-like sleep for seven decades. _Remember_, Fury said when he'd first called her in, _you're not the welcome wagon. Just bring him in in the condition he is now: like a baby who's overdosed on energy. I want his eyes shut and his heart's beating when he gets to New York. Don't screw it up, Hill_.

She wasn't planning to.

Operation Bringing Sleeping Beauty Back to the Castle ― she didn't know who was responsible for that horrid name, but somehow along the way it _stuck_ ― was one mission Maria could pull off under her sleep, but it won't be the first time a mission that easily had went incredibly wrong, and Maria was determined not to let this operation be compromised. So, she didn't slack. But then again, she could almost hear Phil's weak attempt at joking: did she ever?

Maria cursed the cold, talked to the doctors and kept her men in check. She debriefed all of them more than a couple of times, had the extraction team stay on put and the back-up on line if they ever needed any. By the time she finally met the mysterious Sleeping Beauty, Maria was sure she was going down with a flu.

"Pretty," she said, when her eyes glanced over the sharp jaw and sandy blond hair. He barely aged a day. _Show-off_.

It took her a second to confirm that Captain America's case was going to be a large pain in her ass. As though there wasn't enough problem already. She resisted a sigh but rolled her eyes, waved a hand and signalled her men ready. When she retreated her step to let the doctors took her place, she missed the sharp intake of air he took as they jabbed another tube down his arm; his head lolled back, asleep, and one blond hair fell to his forehead. Maria Hill never look back.

"Let's get our princess back safely," she said, and some of her men snickered.

...

Maria missed the official meet-and-greet with Captain America after he went running down into Times Square, but she did caught it on YouTube before their tech deleted it; she was running in Belarus when it happened, and there's blood running down her arm and she's got a team that had medical training as a five-year-old would; the doctors told her the bullet wound might be infected, but she passed-out half-way through his explanation and woke up a day later with machine injected to her body. Maria _hated_ hospitals.

She's wearing a sling on her arm when she barged into Fury's office three days later, and Maria pretended that she didn't see the large figure looming in the background, merged with the shadows. The figure looked unhappy himself ― _lost _was the more appropriate word to describe it, she thought, a second later ― but Maria had an arm that can't fire guns for the next two months because a director decided to leave a little chunk of (_very_) important information out of his briefing, and she thought, yeah perhaps the Director could turn to _her_ problem first.

Fury and her stared at each other for a long time.

"What the hell," she began, eyes red and tired and angry all at the same time; her body was threatening to collapse right then and send her into an immediate sleep, but she rooted herself upright, holding the one-eyed stare he's giving out, because _goddammit_, Maria was furious as fuck. "There's one thing to send me in on a high-risked mission without mentioning a few details in," she started, calm, but there's increasing tremor of rage building up in her tone, and it will take all of her will power to not let her temper get the best of her. "But to send me in with fucking Level 2 Agents, what in the hell were you―"

"The men in black weren't supposed to be there."

"A lot of things weren't supposed to happen." Maria closed her eyes, just for a second, and regained control, knowing she's losing it as the pain on her arm seemed to be increasing. There's a low hiss escaping her lips when she blew out a long breath, but her composure didn't waver. At least, not yet. "I lost a man."

There's quick, cutting silence there when the word tumbled out from her mouth, and she watched how Nick Fury hadn't flinch. She didn't expect him to, but _still_.

They argued for a while ― well, more of _her_ trying not to lash out at Fury for putting a group of men, men under _her_ orders, into situations she had no full control over. She didn't like it when she lose control, not when there were lives at stake, not when there's blood to gamble on. Fury took what she had to say and snarked a comment in between, but even Maria knew that the older man _had_ did something wrong, and this death ― Jefferson, young, bright, with a rueful smile and a sister which just gave birth to a baby ― was on him.

(Maria usually didn't make a habit to put the blame on others, but this one was _not_ her fault)

Fury ended up giving her a new duty, this time in charge of the helicarrier, and Maria knew this was his attempt at apology, or however much of an apology soldiers like they could muster. Maria took the files and the job with a small nod of acknowledgement while Fury nodded back, knowing that neither could undid what had been done, and promised that it was his news to deliver to Jefferson's sister.

Maria stopped half-way out of the room and stared at the figure without casting her eyes on his expression.

She nodded her head in acknowledgement, in greeting. _Captain_.

And through the darkness, he nodded back. _Commander_.

...

Fury's exact words had been "to show him around".

And, aside from that, "to be gentle". Maria didn't know which one was more offensive.

Captain America had been nothing but a clueless, large-looking subject trying to grasp on the reality of the world they live in, following doctor's instructions, going through physiotherapy sessions dutifully, excelling his psych-examination with flying colours and painted his ward with stories most of the agents couldn't place from where. Maria went into his room once, the station they put him in, and recognised few of the sketches, but nothing solid for her to pin-point what. She knew there's Agent Carter, and there's Barnes, but there's just lines mostly, and sometimes, Maria admitted, lines made her dizzy.

Steve Rogers was an excellent artist, nevertheless.

"Fury said you might be ready for active duty," that was her greeting when he met her ― he looked sort of unexpected, blinking a few times before his focus was directed wholly towards her, dropping his chin down. She wanted to glare, asked him what was he _really_ doing here, but that was not her order and this was not the place, so she only flicked a few of hair out from her temple and began, "I'll show you where your new location is."

So, they took a field trip, out in public, and she showed him the new apartment he'll be living at, his new ID card, and the local restaurants and gym. SHIELD have practically set everything up for him, right down to the last dot, and it was just the matter of him trying to fit into the role. He still looked unsure about everything, frowning and furrowing his brows between polite gestures and kind nods.

He's a piece of work, that she could tell.

They were discussing about transportation when she finally noticed that he'd been staring at a guy riding a motorbike, and Hill was quiet for a moment, thinking this through. For a moment, sympathy cut through her features and she pitied this guy ― so strong and capable, yet so out of place ― and didn't realise she had stopped talking until his blue eyes urged her attention, "Ma'am?"

She hated him calling her that ― it made her feel _so_ old ― but refused an eye-roll this time. "If you want one, it won't be a problem."

He looked confused (but then again, he always was, wasn't he―) "I'm sorry?"

"One of those," she bit into her croissant, keeping her gaze cool. "I can arrange that."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose any problem―"

"Shut up," she said, harsh, and perhaps a bit more agitated than she really meant to (because Maria Hill wasn't _meant_ to babysit superheroes) until she spotted his sad-stricken face and realised what she'd just said. _Right_. Perhaps somebody _did_ forget to greet him to the real world. Maria allowed herself to sigh. "I mean, no. It won't be a problem. I'll make it possible."

He looked slightly less distraught than he was a second ago, the corner of his lips tilted into the smallest smile. "Can you do that?"

She snorted then, actually rolled her eyes and say: "You're hilarious, Rogers."

...

She hadn't looked up from the papers spread across her desk when he'd came, even when she'd seen him lingering about five minutes prior.

"Hill?"

At least it wasn't _ma'am_, and Maria really did appreciate that. She hummed, crossed something off the paper and breathed: "Captain."

She didn't say _how can I help you_, because she was really hoping he'd lost his courage ― never mind he _was_ Captain America, never mind it was_supposed_ to be in his character to not bond well with cowardice ― but a girl's got to hope. She really had tons of paperworks that needed to be done, and Sitwell had been a bitch about it lately. She's a little pissed that Coulson could still get away with it, knowing full well that Phil had always been everyone's favourite (and yeah, maybe she favoured him than most too―_whatever_).

"I, uh, I need your help."

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that," she said with a clip, thought perhaps she'd heard him hesitate, probably hadn't expect that coming from her. They must have not been in contact for so long. Months, was it? The last time she fully spoke to him? It hadn't matter. Maria finally blinked up at him, her lips fell in a straight line, "What can I do for you, Captain?"

She could always say no later.

Rogers did the thing with his lips like he's going to smile, but it was uncertain and forced, and took a deep breath. For that one moment, Maria saw the skinny Rogers pre-experiment that she leafed through in his files, but she didn't point it out. He dragged his eyes away, if only for a second, "I'm searching for Agent Carter. _Peggy_ Carter."

"I'm aware who Carter is." She glanced at him, and immediately deduced that he's had it in his knowledge that former Agent Carter was very much alive as he didn't ask any further question. She wondered why he hadn't asked his handler ― not that he had one, officially, since Fury liked to keep an eye on him personally ― about this, but Maria refused to ask questions.

Silence filled the air as he stood there, a little awkwardly, and she tried to weigh her options out. Her pen dragged across the paper, and she could feel his stares burned holes through her movements. She paused, and then: "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

There wasn't much to say, people owe people favours all the time.

...

She didn't ask him why he didn't visit Carter even when she secured him her address, and watched him destroy the punching bags during training.

...

He's apart of the Avengers now, and it's shitty and stupid, but at least he's working.

At least he's got more reason to be there. She watched him made his appearance on the helicarrier and heard two younger agents made fun of his 'grandfather's' clothes, and Maria wondered, not for the first time, that perhaps she was still stuck in high school. She barked at those agents to do their jobs and kept their mouth shut, because even though she's still a little pissed at Fury for the insane Initiative, Captain America ― or any of the Avengers, if she was being absolutely honest ― might have been just what they need for the alien invasion job.

They made wrecked of New York City, and Maria can't get a good night sleep.

(_Phil was dead and Phil was dead and Phil was dead_.)

Sitwell's on the major clean-up crew and Fury pulled her to the side and put her on Captain America duty as the soldier travelled down to California or wherever, and Maria didn't know which was worse. Rogers cut off the tracker about four days later and Fury's a little mad that he did.

"At least he's getting better," she said, tired, and if she could, maybe she'd even be smirking on his behalf.

"Shut up," Fury snapped and sent another agent to tail Rogers over. Maria silently hoped to see how'd _that_ unfold. Deny as they might, Rogers_was_ getting better at knowing how the present-world works.

Phil would have been proud.

...

About a few months later, she's got news that Rogers was back in SHIELD, but he wasn't on the helicarrier, and Maria could deal with that.

He's got assigned to missions and he did them splendidly well, returning back bruised and near battered, but not crippled enough that he's just got the stuff to keep on moving on. In the end, Maria realised, they're not that different. They're both soldiers, harboured the same scars and responsibilities and each had their own stories to tell, own ghosts to haunt them over. Even if some of them were more fortunate with super-soldier serum in their being.

Maria Hill saved his ass about two months later.

She's got a pounding headache when the shot was fired, and it was smelly and stinky wherever they were, and she barely had an idea about the whole situation considering they were Captain America's last extraction team available, and they were only there because Fury demanded them to, last-minute. Maria _hated_ saving his ass.

Maria also realised she hated a lot of things.

"Thank you," Rogers said when they're in the clear, and there were still blood trickling down her cheek. She wanted to punch him. Just for being a large pain in her ass like she expected him to, years ago. She didn't, though, only pressed her skull harder against the seat as the helicopter took off.

"Shut up," she told him, because she really needed him to.

This time, Rogers smiled and really did. Shut up, that was.

...

HYDRA attacked, and Nick Fury was dead.

Except of course, he wasn't. Just like Phil wasn't. Or Rogers wasn't. Or the Winter Soldier (apparently he was _Bucky_, Roger's long lost friend) wasn't. Too many people who were supposed to die, didn't. Maria was getting tired of the same plot and drama, but that was the world she chose to live in, and she'd be damned if she failed on it now. So, she kept on going and working and monitoring and planning. Even when she's losing men, back-up and sense of real security.

Maria swore she'll keep on breathing, as long as Fury's machine will keep on beeping.

Right after his umpteenth surgery, Fury told her to save Captain America. It won't be an easy job. There won't be back up, and will, most definitely, be completely on her own. Still, it was better than to be cooped up in the old building and smelling metal rust and heard the doctor's chair scuffled whenever he moved, murmuring out apologies straightly afterwards when she sent him a sharp glare, irritated mostly.

She saved Captain America, and she's got to admit: it was kind of cool.

Plus, she'd also saved Black Widow, and that just doesn't happen everyday. She led them to the secret base and let Rogers and Romanoff reunited with the SHIELD's director while she went off and checked what her monitors had picked up. For the next few hours, they spent up planning, and when Rogers wanted to bring down SHIELD along with HYDRA, she knew it was the only option that was right on the table. HYDRA's infiltration had been way in too deep; saving SHIELD would be a losing battle.

So, they didn't.

They all had their roles, and they were set. What Maria wasn't expecting was, by the end of the battle, it was her who might have killed Captain America.

...

He's alive and she didn't visit him at the hospital.

Well, she _tried_ to, but he wasn't waking up and Maria had to set up an appointment at Stark before it's too late, and she really, _really_ hated the hospitals ― too many trips to the ER when she was a child, and the nurses have always been a little too _fake_ in her personal opinion ― so she did what she did best: she gave them a head start.

She sent him a text message and was surprised when he showed up where she wanted him to.

Seeing him there in _civilian_ clothing ― no more grandfather's clothes, partially thanks to Tony or his persuasion anyway ― was a little disheartening because then, it was clear that that was that. SHIELD was gone. HYDRA will burn. Maria will contribute to the latter, she promised, and greeted him with the gentlest smile she could muster. The smile he returned was wider, gentler, kinder, and Maria was glad he didn't lose himself when he could. He looked handsome, she thought.

"I'm sorry I let you fall," she said, when she handed him the papers and intel she's gotten, hoping it would be enough to give them just an inclination on where to begin.

"You didn't let me fall." He told, after a beat, accepting the file. She gave him a rueful smile.

"Don't get yourself killed." It sounded like an order when she said it, but she didn't take it back, adjusting her posture, straightening her spine. Rogers just looked amused. "Tony won't rest easy if you do."

"He worries too much." He feigned annoyance, and Maria snorted.

"Come here," she murmured, noting two strange looking men keeping an eye on her for the last five minutes. She still didn't know if the men's target was her, or Rogers, but either way: the men won't walk for too long. Maria will make sure of that. She tilted her head up to him as Rogers took a step forward, subtly raising up one eyebrow while Maria reached out and tugged on his jacket, made pretence to brush off any dust. "Just be careful out there."

"I will." He slowly hummed, watching her with careful eyes and Maria positioned his back towards the men. "Someone tailing me?" He asked, but it's a whisper and he dared himself to lift one hand and brushed a fallen strand of dark hair on her temple; Maria didn't flinch, but her breath did caught up in her throat because all of a sudden, Captain America was _inches_ away from her and Maria could smell dirt with a hint of cologne on his shirt. She stifled a glare, and she thought Rogers might have been smirking. _Bastard_.

"Me," she responded dryly, but drew out a smile to maintain her role― whatever that may be. "Do me a favour, and dye your hair will you?"

He nodded, understood.

"Good," she said. "Don't do anything stupid."

He crooked a shy smile, this time no longer forced nor uncertain, because, Maria would like to think, that he just might be getting used to people like her (or just, you know, _her_); there's no hesitation in his steps now, just complete certainty on where to go next, to continue moving forward. He couldn't afford on being lost and scared, not where he's heading, and both of them knew that. His smile stayed with her, warm and gentle, as he let out: "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Mm-hmm," she nearly snorted, hiking up an eyebrow. "We'll see about that."

Rogers' smile grew wider, and he went in and hugged her (_hugged_ her), perhaps still playing his role and Maria stayed in his embrace for a full three seconds before he parted, said his thank you's and disappeared away. And what do you know? She did break the two men's legs. She hated lousy spies.

...

Three months later, Maria woke up to her phone blasting in her ears. It was nearly four in the morning. She'd expected it to be Tony, because it won't be the first time it happened, and already plotted her revenge when the sound at the end of the line _didn't_ belong to the billionaire. "Hello?" The line was shit, but there's a voice there. A man's voice. "Hello?"

"Who's this?"

"Hill? Hill? Are you there, it's―" The voices muffled and disappeared, until it formed together and became words again. Maria waited, steady and alarmed. "Maria, it's Steve. It's Steve Rogers. Hello?"

Maria sighed and knew somehow, somewhere, she _did_ saw this one coming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairings**: Developing Steve/Maria, featuring Clint/Maria/Bucky trio.  
**Word(s)**: 7,907 words.  
**Note**: There isn't supposed to be a follow-up to this, but I guess the first chapter was inappropriately left without a concrete closure, and so my brain managed to lengthen the original idea. I don't know what has become of this anymore if I'm to be honest, but please note down that you could probably expect a third instalment to this whole fiction. Reviews, of course, would be appreciated.

Thanks to my beta **Lynn**, because she deserves all the thanks I swear.

* * *

**Part II**

* * *

"Damnit, Rogers."

Maria cursed into the silent night so sharply, that it was enough to cut it. Her satellite phone stayed dead, unblinking and useless; there was no doubt Maria was picking up on a headache. Hot air passed through her nose and she sighed, ran a hand over her scalp before her steps took her away to pace around the room, and the phone sat immobile, still atop the cover of her bed while the clock struck two in the morning.

It's been thirty-nine days, she reminded herself, _thirty-nine days,_ since the first time Rogers made contact with her. And thirty-days and two hours since he promised he'd called her again. Maria could convert the days into hours, and the hours into minutes, and she had, two hours ago, the time where her phone was supposed to ring and his voice was supposed to come through, but it hadn't, so the hour lengthened, the minutes did too, and Maria suddenly hated math.

"How am I supposed to make sure you're not dead?" She could hear her own voice asking out loud to no one, just _staring_ at the damn thing; the exact same thing she'd said to Captain America himself, when he'd initiated the third and last contact, although in terms to how she was feeling right now, it felt terribly like ages ago.

It was crazy, and _so_ stupid, but Maria could hear the small smile in his voice when he breathed out afterwards, hearing her question, and he'd answered back, "I'll call you again - a month from now - at midnight."

"Rogers," she remembered her own voice barking back, a warning. Maria didn't need reassurances, she needed true confirmation.

She needed him to be alive.

Captain America could not be dead, not on her watch, not again.

"That's an order, Hill." He told her firmly, and Maria, surprisingly, found herself not arguing back, just fisting her fingers into perfect curls, until her nails sunk into her palms and the pain became increasingly numb. She heard him hesitate, just a little, and then softening, as though realising his mistake, he repeated again, calmer: "That's a promise."

Captain America had just broken a promise.

And it felt like shit.

...

Seven hours and thirty-two minutes since Rogers was supposed to report in, Maria went to Tony for help.

"These are the last coordinates Rogers and Wilson were supposed to be at. I gave them the location, I should know." She said, referring to their second call, the second time Captain America had requested her personal help. "About a month ago, there were reports of a few sightings of them around the perimeter, which should confirm that they were there, or _near_ it at the very least. Approximately a week later, they drove out―"

"But that was the last time people have seen either of them." Stark finished, and there's an almost-murderous look crossing over his features, which amused Maria secretly, not that she would admit it. Not when she had a pair of blue eyes haunting her at the back of her skull.

"Rogers has contacted me three times in total. The first was May 2nd, at 0403 hour for five minutes and twenty-eight seconds. He wanted me to find him a location. Here," Maria slid her index finger down the map across Tony's desk, her eyes burning through the crisscross patterns of the road, imagining Wilson following Roger's tail with no hesitation, perhaps even an excited smile spread broad across his face.

"Didn't that place blew up on May 4th?"

"Yes," it wasn't quite a hiss when she said it, but there's a sting to her voice; the idea that both the Falcon and Captain America had done something so extremely stupid, even when she specifically told him not to, _ordered_ him not to. "That was also the second time he called me. May 4th, at 2349 hour, for two minutes and eighteen seconds. This time it was Wilson who talked to me. He asked me for another location, I supplied it. Quickly."

"And you didn't _question_ them?" Stark appeared surprised, a crease deepening in between his thick brows. "At _all?_ I'm sorry, but have you _eaten_ the real Maria Hill?"

Maria's mouth didn't even twitch, "Damnit Tony, don't you think I've tried questioning them? Wilson is good at deflecting, and I knew they hadn't got much time when they were making that phone call. I just figured―"

"That Steve would call you back."

"He's too... _him_ to not to." Maria pressed her lips together, thinking back of her tone, her words. Had she sounded just a little too... _sentimental?_ Because she shouldn't have. She wouldn't allow herself to. There was too much of a risk, and getting emotional over Captain America was something she couldn't risk, not for her physical wellbeing, and especially not for her mental one. Maria cleared her throat, "Anyway, he did. He called me. May 11th, 2340 hour, for four minutes and three seconds."

Stark tapped his fingers over his desk, _one-two-three_, furrowed his brows together. "And he didn't ask for any location the third time?"

"No." Maria shook her head once, reaffirming her answer. "He told me what happened at the explosion, not all of it, but just enough to pass. HYDRA former secret base, bunch of other x-files, secrets, and codes extracted from SHIELD. He was supposed to have sent some to you." There had been a moment of silence when Maria could hear the gruff edge in his voice, _Rogers_' voice, as he reported all the findings Wilson and him had managed to stumble upon. His voice was sore and weak, a terrible sign he had gone without water for more hours than he should, and Maria wondered why she hadn't said something about it. "Neither Rogers nor Wilson informed me where they were planning to go next, but Rogers said they'd report in, just to make sure."

"At midnight, exactly a month later." Tony repeated what he'd know, sighing as he brought his palm to rub at his mouth. "And―?"

"And he never made that call."

"Jesus, Maria― and you're only telling me this _now?_"

There's a pause on her part, and she hesitated, "I ran out of options."

"You ran out of..." The billionaire went off. Maria momentarily found herself enjoying the overstressed Stark that he rarely showed. She heard it as he ordered JARVIS to run a scan over the exploded HYDRA base, and get every file the AI could possibly get on the deserted place. A few seconds later, under Stark's fingers, another hologram appeared in front of them, and it took Maria a moment to realise it was a map. A rather very large, very realistic-looking map, "And you said these are their last coordinates?"

He pointed at a red dot, alive and alarming, and Maria blinked once. "Yes."

Stark was waving his hand again, widening the map until buildings and houses and street lamps and roads became thoroughly visible when Maria said: "I'm going after them."

"No, you're not." The slightly older man scoffed, something like _that's funny_ vibrated off his skin and Maria felt the small urge to itch her back, revolted by the remote idea she might have been looked down upon, dismissed, as though the mere idea of her reaching out a gun was a child's silly fantasy.

"Stark."

"We're not arguing about this."

"I led them to where they are." Anger leaked through her skin and lingered, but Maria had dealt with her father's temper 'till she was sixteen, and hers since she knew what being angry had truly meant, so she kept her pose and controlled her breathing. Allowing Stark's stubbornness to get the best of her was not an option today. "I'll get them back."

"I'm touched to find even the fierce Maria Hill experiences guilt, but this is _not_ your mission to―"

"That is not your decision to make," she responded back, harsher now, angrier. "And goddamnit Tony, you can't stop me."

The billionaire stared, then sighed.

...

Maria caught on the blond hair before she could even register the annoying glint sparkling in his eyes.

"Where do you want me?" He asked, hands on the handle of the motorcycle, one matching hers, and his hand shifted, his legs postured ready, the engine roared underneath him; Clint Barton _smirked_. Maria kept herself from gagging.

"Nowhere." She responded back, not batting an eye.

The archer snickered, amused no doubt, patting his hair while holding onto the helmet now sitting in between his thighs. "I'm not letting you go on your own, Hill."

"I don't need a babysitter, Barton." She bit out, turning to him now.

"Who says anything about babysitting?" His voice was slick and relaxed, and Maria pondered for a while to figure out what his angle was exactly, and what he could possibly want from this. Barton didn't even flinch at her glare, but then again, he never did. "I'm _bored_."

Ah yes. Why wouldn't he? Barton had been out of a job since SHIELD sank, and Maria could only imagine how that was eating him alive. The lack of missions, the missing adrenaline rush he got whenever he drew his arrow back and aimed. She'd been where he is. She missed the Helicarrier from the bottom of her heart; the feel of blood rushing through her veins when the smoke clogged her lungs, the sense of being alive when she's nearly dead. She eased her stance, gave the blond a once-over. "Tired of being jobless?"

"_Eh_." He shrugged a shoulder, hunching just a little. "Tired of facing another HYDRA simulation, I guess." Barton scratched his temple, frowning, "I mean, they're good, JARVIS made them unexpectedly believable, but I figure it's time to hunt down the real deal, you know?"

"I'm not hunting down HYDRA." Well, she wasn't. Not this time, anyway.

"Bound to meet with one, or two." He tilted his chin up and faced the sky, closing his eyes as the crease between his brows deepened. "Man, I'm dying to get an arrow through at least one of those shit disturbers' eye sockets."

Maria didn't say anything; just stared at the long stretch of road in front of her as she holstered her second gun. The air was humid and hot and Maria realised she'd never had much fondness for summer, but she didn't hate it. It was one of the things she'd learned not to hate, not even when dad's belt used to burn hotter under the summer sun as it hit her skin, not even when his sweat tasted saltier as it fell at the edge of her lips while he was barking right at her twelve-year-old face, gripping her hair tight in his fist; maybe it was just something about the season, or the way the sun tingled at the horizon as a promise of a better day, or maybe it's just the tall grass and children's smiles, but either way, Maria didn't hate summer.

She picked up a knife.

Barton sent her a short glance, "I contacted Natasha. Gave out Steve and Wilson's coordinates."

She gave him another look in return, one that clearly asked if the Black Widow responded, and Barton's face turned a shade grimmer. "Not yet," he said, answering her silent question and Maria slowly nodded. "She'll do what she can. Nat won't bail on Cap."

Maria fucking hoped not.

Her third knives clang. "We'll take the east route."

"East?" Barton turned to her like she just grew a second, funnier head.

"You in or you out?" She asked instead, feeling her patience slip like sand in between her fingers, just like the seconds passing by as the satellite phone in her leather jacket continued to stay silent. She bit her tongue and held in the pain, just as Barton passed a quick breath, adjusting his hips.

"Can we stop for snacks, though?"

"Hold your noise for two hours, and I'll think about it." She snapped back, and Barton's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, amused probably.

"Cap," he called out to the road, grinning, almost. "Look out, look out. Here comes Maria Hill!"

Maria cracked her neck, and nodded at the archer's statement: _damn straight_.

...

"_This_ is the location you sent them to?"

It was arid and Maria felt her throat drying up on her; Barton shifted, but did not get off his bike. They're at an abandoned facility, which looked more like a farmhouse, that appeared run-down and long forgotten, a place a family might have lived once upon a time, but fled for reasons unknown. She looked at Clint then, found the loyalty (even in bits) he had for her, and she for him, and nodded her head. "One of the supposed places they've put Barnes in. It's mostly deserted now."

"No, not really." Barton replied, eyes roving and evaluating their situation. "Someone's been here. Someone might still be."

Maria didn't say anything, wondering briefly if Rogers might have been where she was right now, looking at this place with the kind of uncertainty and doubt and confidence and courage flaring in his heart, because, if he had, she wondered if he had wanted to puke in like she did right then. Maria clutched her knees, and twisted her palms― felt her skin move and flesh kneaded under fingertips; she sighed. "Someone might have already been tailing them."

"What? Cap?" Which was absurd because this was Rogers they were talking about, and the man was literally re-born with enhanced senses (like, _hello_, super hearing anybody?) that made him one of the most vigilant people they knew, but... nothing was ever truly guaranteed, not their safety, not even for super soldiers.

"The explosion probably gave them away," She gritted her teeth and set her jaw. "I knew I should have ordered him to stay low. _Stupid_―"

"Shut up, Hill." Barton snapped back, but didn't roll his eyes. "You know it's not your fault."

Maria knew better than to argue, knew there was no point, and exhaled. "Think we should stay one night?"

"I think we should stay a few," Barton said, almost appearing as though he was leaning back, enjoying the scenery, humming under his breath, a tune Maria didn't recognise, but heard so many times coming from him since she'd known the man. "Someone's tailing us."

...

James "Bucky" Barnes found them three days later and tried to split her face in half.

It was a good punch. It was a _brutal_ punch. Pale, flesh knuckles collided with her jaw with a menacing kind of force that Maria was sure if she pushed one of her molars hard enough, it would break. She grunted when she landed on her side roughly, against the floor, hitting the edge of a table on the way; they were at the abandoned "farmhouse", had finally decided to check it out, and ten minutes in, Maria was already half-dying, which was freaking ridiculous, and then there's hair in her eyes and blood in her throat, and then, there was Barnes. Bright as the day, clear as the sky.

And he was going to end her.

Great.

"Who―" He picked her up by her jaw with his metal hand; dark, messy hair falling in his face, and there's explicit anger in his eyes, stinging venom in his breath. Maria's memory flashed ―_just like dad_― threatening death and suffering as he asked her why had she killed her own mother. But _this wasn't Dad_, Maria reminded herself, _just Barnes, it's just Barnes,_ so she took a deep breath and refocused, saw Barnes closing the distance between them, gripping her jaw so hard it could _crush_ her, just like that, _snap_, her whole life could be over, as he continued, "―are you working for?"

She whimpered, and he caught her throat, squeezing.

"B-_Barnes_."

His eyes widened, his grip loosened, but only for a second. "How do you know my name?" He growled, then winced, as though a random headache just struck and he felt unsure of his words, of his actions, but his palm only slipped lower down her throat, pressing it tighter, like she was the source of his whole dilemma. She wanted to shout for help, or to explain, or something ― just, goddamn, _something_― but her air was running out, and she gasped out instead.

"R-Ro-Rogers." She tried, fighting for air. "I- Rogers―"

"Shut up. _Shut up_." He snapped, as he twisted his wrist and his thumb pressed against her jaw now. "You won't get to Steve. I swear to God, if it's the last thing I'll do―"

A _woosh_ and Maria noticed a syringe, now sticking against Barnes' right calf, attached to an arrow.

She almost smirked.

Barnes picked it up, flinched when he pulled the near-empty syringe out from his skin, and three seconds later, after an unsuccessful attempt to try and pull her down with him, he fell, his body dropping like a doll, and Maria gasped again for air, holding her throat gingerly with her own, two goddamn hands. She slid against the wall, until the bottom of her spine met the floor, and closed her eyes. _Breathe_, she told herself.

"Holy mother of―" Barton whooped, coming to stare at Barnes' unmoving body, now lying limp, breathing still, on the ground. "Is that―_shit_― did I just sedate the Winter-freaking-Soldier?"

"Help me up," was all she said, reaching out ever so helplessly.

Instinctually, Barton didn't even blink at the out-stretched hands, just grasped them with his strong, calloused fingers and tugged her into a standing position, brushing his hands down until they settled in the crook of her elbows, beckoning her to look at him in the eyes. "You okay?" He asked, and Maria didn't cringe at the smell of his breath. His cravings for onions needed to be seriously curtailed.

"I'm fine."

Barton encouraged her to lift her chin up, wincing when she did; his one finger flicked down her throat, his mouth curled as he let out a low whistle: "That'll definitely leave a bruise."

_Good_, was what she wanted to say. She wanted Rogers to see it. "We can't leave him," she said instead, looking down at Barnes, blinking once. Barton knelt down beside the body, and Maria allowed him to observe the steady rising and falling of the other man's chest, assuring them that Rogers' long lost best friend was indeed still alive, and, more importantly, wasn't murdered by them.

"He's going to attack us once he's awake," Barton muttered, pulling out a pen from God-knows-where and using it to push the tangled mess of dark hair now knotting right across Barnes' pretty lashes. The blond gave Maria a look, mouth setting in a straight line, "That won't be long."

"I'm guessing not." She affirmed, like a hum. "We still can't leave him."

"He's not stable enough." Barton stood up then, brushing his hands together.

Maria's tongue clicked, "We'll work something out. We can't leave him with the mindset we're off to murder his best friend, one he probably can't fully remember, for goodness' sake." She hesitated, and suddenly an old picture Maria had seen when she had leafed through Rogers' file came to her, a picture of a smiling Captain and Bucky Barnes arm-in-arm. Maria suddenly felt the bile at the back of her throat thickened in bitterness, edging to her mouth, reminding again how emotionally-crippled she was in reality. "We have to help him."

"Oh, he needs help alright. I'm with you on that― but what can _we_ do?" Barton frowned, crossing his arms in his casual way. "We're not exactly therapists, Maria."

"Thank God for that," she muttered, moved forward, eyes concentrating on Barnes.

Looking back at his unconscious body, Maria reflected on how she'd never visited the museum, not the one that displayed Captain America and the Howling Commando's whole history. Oh, she'd learnt of them, had to, studied the file when Rogers was found, heard Coulson go on and on just to entertain the guy, or even for the heck of it ― but she'd never thought she'd be here. Never thought she would stare down at _this_, a piece straight from the past, just like Rogers was, but damaged and unmade and, ultimately, undeniably bewildered. She wondered where was the _Bucky_ everyone was yapping about, raving about; if he could still recover from the metal and programming implanted in him, if he could still make it out alive and be the _Bucky_ Rogers would have wanted him to be, _should_ have been.

She wondered if she could pull this off - this insane _whatever_ that's unfolding - wondered if she's got enough guts, strength, _sanity_.

Maria sighed instead.

"We're not leaving him," she decided. Barton dropped his shoulders, and didn't argue.

...

The cuffs Stark designed were finally put to the test and they chimed when the Winter Soldier stirred awake.

"Hello," Barton propped himself on a chair, chewing fries at the corner of his mouth. Barnes, now strapped meticulously to the bed with _Stark Industries_' newest specialised inventions (which _really_ meant that they was designed specifically for the Avengers' use, and _only_ the Avengers), glared at him with misty, dark eyes. Maria watched, unimpressed, and resisted the temptation to smack Barton right across his head, just for showing off that stupid smirk on his face. "Did ya' have a nice sleep there?"

Barnes groaned, lolling his head back against the mattress, and began muttering in Russian.

It was a threat, of course, something about killing the both of them in graphic details, which honestly unfazed her. This Maria knew because Russian had been one out of seven languages she had learned, and probably the worst out of all seven for her to speak. But she understood it well. And anyway, she had always been good at listening. Plus, threatening was practically in the job's description.

"You will get _nothing_ from me." growled Barnes, seemingly tired of Russian, switching to English.

"Relax," Barton tried, tapping the sole of his shoe against the carpet, not much in tune, but there's a rhythm. "We're not going to hurt you."

Barnes laughed then, fisting his hands and pulling, trying to break the cuffs, but to no avail ― "That's what they all said," he murmured gruffly, grunting when the metal tightened around his wrists and ankles. Barton snorted, "You can try, buddy, but it's Hulk-proof."

"I am not―" his eyes were bloodshot, and a shiver ran down Maria's spine. "―your _buddy_."

Barton huffed, but didn't argue, and sent her a look that clearly meant _what now_, and Maria was, in this rare instance, at a loss. She blinked, taking the information in and pursing her lips; her palms were sweaty, but she kept her guard up and secretly deliberated on the question if the Winter Soldier could smell the fear coming off of her. She swallowed.

"Look," Barton started and rubbed at his unshaven face, pinching his chin. "We know who you are―"

"Then you should know of what I am capable of." There might be a smirk from the Winter Soldier's lips if you squinted hard enough, but it passed too soon when both Maria and Barton realised how much truth ran through his words. He turned to them, and Maria did not flinch nor tremble under his harshening gaze, licking her parched lips as he continued, "Let me go this instant, or I will carve your beating heart out of you in your sleep."

"Nice try, but no. You're going to kill us either way." Barton's tone was a taunt, but his face was dead serious.

"We are _not_ the enemy." Maria began, and held her elbows in place when she crossed her arms over her chest, clenching her jaw.

"_Everyone is the enemy_." Barnes muttered in Russian, closing his eyes. "_Everyone is a stranger_."

"_We're not_." Maria replied back in Romanoff's mother tongue, watched when he snapped his attention directly on her, and there's a scar running down his neck, from his jaw disappearing under his collar, she realised, one that would have matched Romanoff's, located on her upper right thigh, although hers was a miniature version of it. "We're not hunting Captain Rogers down," there's a glimmer of recognition in his dark eyes when the title rolled off her tongue, tasting bittersweet, and she hid her annoyance towards the Man in Spangles (as Stark more-than-once called him) for _dropping out of the face of the earth on her_ with, "Not in the way you presume we are."

"Cap's our friend." Barton wet his lips, then dared himself to grin. "And Maria's his girlfriend."

Maria's eyes shot daggers at him.

Barnes hid his wince and stared, and, for the first time, appeared speechless. Then, like a growl, Barnes' lips curled: "Liar."

"Look. I know it's hard to believe, but we really _are_ Cap's friends. We've been searching for him and Sam Wilson since they went missing about a month ago. We don't know what happened to them, where they went or if they are already dead. You see we can't _have_ them dead. Not when all they did was to search for you, Cap's long-lost best friend. Welcome to the 21st century, by the way." Barton paused, smiling a quick greeting. "You're obviously confused, and panicked, and tired, and I know you've been to hell and back, but trust me on this. We're not here to hurt you. We're never going to lay a finger on you. We just wanna save Steve, that's all."

Barnes' breaths became jagged and forceful, and Maria leaned in, worried, but Barton put a hand up, stopping her.

"Steve" Barnes managed, through gritted teeth, and winced, "isn't dead."

"Steve isn't―" Maria's head swirled. "_What?_"

"Not dead? How do you know that?" Barton was on his feet then, alert, and pressing the Winter Soldier. "Hey, come on. How―"

"A headache." Maria warned him, now finally noticing the pain etching the Winter Soldier's face, "His head hurts. He needs to go to sleep."

"What the―"

"Sleep, Barnes." Maria ushered, pressing a palm on his clothed chest. "You're no good to us sick."

And he did.

...

"What the _fuck_," Barton looked like he was ready to punch a wall, but Maria was just ready to punch _him_ if it came down to it. "He knows where Cap and Wilson are."

"We don't know that."

"Of course we do." Barton hissed, pulled on his hairline. "And he's here following _us_? What the―"

"He just knows what he does. There's no point―" Maria felt her tongue running dry, the frustration now bristling up her neck. "We can't blame him. We don't know what happened."

"Do we _want_ to?" Barton demanded, face red, and Maria realised how the long nights and empty clues had finally messed up their heads, and now they're arguing in a cheap motel to which they're currently sharing with a deadly assassin. They're _screwed_, and she's not the only one who has noticed this.

Barton's question replayed in her head, once, twice, over and over until all she could hear (all she _wanted_ to hear) was the smile in Roger's voice at the end of the line, assuring her that he's still breathing, walking, _alive_. The fists by her side go numb with hideous guilt as she stares down Barton, knowing neither one of them will look away, not right now. They're too stubborn, for goodness' sakes. She forced, "Yes. We do." _I_ do.

Barton held her stare and stayed silent, but his jaw twitched.

"I need a fucking drink," he finally said, as he turned and walked away. He'll be back in an hour, or less, Maria's sure of it. Or at least, she wanted to.

She exhaled, then she gathered the hot night air in her lungs, felt her shoulders slump once the archer's shadow disappeared and Maria closed her eyes in pain, feeling her frustration digging into her bones, sharp like nails. Pulling out the satellite phone, she stared at its dark screen, remembering the heat of it when it vibrated, rang, and his voice spoke on the other end. "Dammit, Rogers," she said, tightening her grip on the metal case, seeing flashes of a broken soldier inside the motel room, one that should be with _him_ instead. She remembered a cold sensation for years before:

Maria Hill hated saving Captain America's ass.

...

Barnes was finally awake, but he refused to talk.

He didn't move either, which was fine with Maria. Barton moved him to the floor, hands still held with the cuffs and whatever dignity Barnes had left; Barton walked once they've got the Winter Soldier secured, only to return about half an hour later with cans of soup and a few clean shirts stuffed in the same plastic bag. He tossed one shirt, coloured like barf, at Barnes, making a face, "You reek."

Barnes made a strangled noise at the back of his throat, but nodded at the fallen, fabric in acknowledgement.

"What is this?" Maria asked, because Barton's a lunatic, and if you don't ask, you might never know what's exactly happening in his head.

"Some stuff I thought he could chew and swallow." The archer now lay on his back on the second, single bed in the cramped room, giving a bored expression when his eyes landed on the half-working television. "What?" He said, without glancing her way, "Even Winter Soldier needs to eat something. Just be glad it's not flesh."

Maria didn't wince at the references, picking up one can, reading over the ingredients.

"Oh yeah," Barton interrupted, then propped himself up into a sitting position and looked around, searching for something, hands roaming everywhere from his chest to his hips, like someone who'd just realised his wallet had been stolen from him. "Here it is," he muttered, rummaging through the plastic bags and pulling out a few crumpled-up papers. "Here," he dropped them in front of the Winter Soldier, and Maria finally realised what it was: clippings of Rogers, and what he'd done since he'd 'woken' up from a seven-decade sleep, all from different events, different pictures, different stories. Barnes' lip was already curling, but Barton added quickly, "That's Steve. Cap."

It took a moment, and Maria might have held her breath, before Barnes finally dropped his glance to what the archer was pointing out, his posture breaking, just a fragment. "He's done good for himself, just in case you wanted to know." Barton's finger pointed elsewhere, "And that's Cap with some of our agents. He's a good leader, as you can see― I mean, he's still trying to figure out how Tony works, but I don't think anybody can really ever figure out _how Tony works_ except for maybe Pepper, but that's because she's _Pepper,_ but, nevertheless, Cap's a real special leader. He's humble, confident and no one can ever really hate him. And he's a cool guy, probably one of the coolest old men I've ever known, no offence of course, and uh, he's just... _good_." A tinge of a nostalgia flicked across Barton's eyes, and Maria felt her stomach twisted inside; dealing with emotions, this overwhelming feeling, had never been something she could handle properly. The archer chanced her a look, "What'd you think, Hill?"

Maria ignored the silence which hung once the words sauntered out of his mouth, her heart pounded against her ribcage, and Maria practiced a breathing technique a senior sailor once taught her, back when she was still in the Navy. Her eyes fluttered and her shoulders squared, "He's... too precious," a pause (the _quickest_ of pauses, and Maria swept in a breath), "to be dead."

Barton didn't roll his eyes. "There you go. A lover's speech. Straight from the heart, I believe?"

Maria didn't swat him across the head. "Brunei." She breathed out, coming up from behind the blond, staring down at the same picture.

"You were there?" Barton asked, grinning a bit, and Maria noticed the air of his question was just as though they'd never left their post at SHIELD, as if it was an everyday occurrence to ask questions about one another's missions. Maria held a smile in, but she could feel her expression softening.

She shook her head, "In charge of their reports, though. One of his men got shot, but no casualties."

"See?" Barton prodded, eyes glinting at the Winter Soldier, "Good leader. What'd I tell ya?"

Barnes huffed.

Maria shifted, "I'll make dinner."

...

Maria stayed awake at night, sometimes. There were two men in her room right now, which was both unusual and not, really, because she's been here before, stuck in a place with more men that she could count, practically every day of her life if she thought about it, but it's different too, because it's Barton, and Barnes, and yeah, her. And if someone had once told her she would be in this situation, she would have left the room unimpressed and unconvinced because how would _that_ work. But it _did_, somehow, because they weren't killing each other (at least not yet), and Barnes was quiet on the floor, no longer sleeping (Maria didn't think he would _allow_ himself to), and Barton was snoring (because of course _he_ would), and it was okay, everything was okay.

The phone never rings. It won't ring, Maria thought. It's broken, probably, and maybe Rogers and Wilson were alright after all, but those were just useless thoughts Maria weakly came up with whenever she stayed awake, whenever her thumb brushed over the buttons and the screen, reassuring herself again and again that people who weren't supposed to die _didn't_, and though it's been nearly two weeks, Captain America and the Falcon could surely survive this long. They're _made_ to, delusional as it may seem, but they had to survive, to thrive. There was a reason they were chosen.

Maria thought she might be coming down with a fever.

(Maria realised, once again, that she _hated_ superheroes.)

Barnes kept his head down, no longer struggling due to the already tight grip the cuffs had over his wrists and ankles, but even with the hair falling like a curtain around his face, Maria knew he was watching her. There was a moment when it got too quiet that Maria almost choked out a weak attempt at breaking the ice, "He said he'd call," as an explanation, to why they're here, why he's tied down, and why Barton was trying so hard to make Barnes understand (_what_, Maria wasn't particularly sure), but those words never come out.

She wasn't sure if she wanted them to, not really.

But she still looked at the phone anyway, cursed when it didn't ring; because it should have. _It should have_.

...

Maria thinks Barnes secretly understands.

(Maria still wasn't sure of_ what_.)

...

About three days later, Barnes spoke, and his first words were: "Salt."

Barton was surprised, almost choking on his chicken, but not as surprised as Maria when she tilted her head up and stared at the Winter Soldier, the tablet in her hands forgotten. She blinked. Barnes just appeared annoyed, darting his dark eyes away, sighing afterwards. "Your food," he said again, slowly, carefully, deliberately, like everything he said was gold, and he wasn't about to give it to just anyone. "Too much― _salt_."

"What the―" Barton laughed then, proud and loud and cheerful, and for a moment Maria swore his enthusiasm nearly caused her to smile ― well, _wider_. Because you can never really _not_ smile when the archer's just goofily grinning like that, even if it made him appear like the complete idiot he was. "You talked. You talked! Man, who would have thought I'd be this crazy to hear a wanted assassin's voice, huh?"

He laughed again, slapping his knee once. "_And_ the first thing he said is to criticise your cooking, Hill. What a day to be alive."

Maria immediately frowned. "Shut up, Barton."

Barnes spat something about water, which quickly prompted the archer to give him some, and the Winter Soldier chugged it as though he'd never tasted the liquid before, tongue darting out and mouth catching every last drop. He choked. Barton glanced over then drew himself back, asking wearily, "You okay there, Barnes?"

"It's―" He coughed, calming down. "It's Soldier."

"Soldier?" It was Maria who asked.

His dangerous eyes flicked over to hers, and his chapped lips fell in a straight line. "Yes."

"Soldier, then." Maria agreed, and passed an understanding look down to Barton, one that said _just go with it_, and the blond shrugged, nodding ever so lightly. A second later, he grinned, returning his gaze back on the Soldier, "So, too salty?"

The Soldier nodded mutely.

The silence was broken by Barton's chirps about the generally stupid things from the story of something a rude guy had said to him at the gas station this morning, then recounted the one time he was forced to drink cow's guts when he was captured, but nothing too graphic or violent, and though the Soldier was mostly tolerating them (before he could find a way to slice their throats for real), Maria privately thought the Soldier was honestly enjoying Barton's stories, and she was thankful for that.

When they were finished, the archer moved first, and politely asked the Soldier if he wanted to stand up, move, so he wouldn't get cramps. Expecting him to reject the idea, Maria went on to the internet, resuming her search while nibbling at her piece of chicken, and the Soldier said instead, "I know where Steve is. I can take you there."

"Oh wow," Barton stared wide-eyed, mouth agape. "I did not expect that," he pointed out, tried chuckling, "but okay, yeah," he clapped his hands. "Can you do that? Take us there, and not kill us in the process?"

The Soldier seemed to grow in annoyance. "Yes."

"And you're not lying?" The archer bravely asked.

"I kill, I do not lie." The other man responded back, like a mantra, deep with a subtle Russian accent. Then, as though somebody broke his arrogant trance, the Soldier dropped his shoulders, eyes looking around, like he's missing something, and his mouth moved, the accent gone from his tone, like he was trained to, or he remembered to, "I won't lie about Steve."

Maria didn't flinch at the name. "Are you sure of your intel, Soldier?"

"Yes."

Barton caught her eyes. _Are we going to trust this guy?_ He seemed to be saying. Maria pondered.

_Yes_, she blinked back, gaze sliding back to the fallen Soldier, still rooted to the floor. "Okay," she finally decided, swallowing the piece of her chicken down, and a few feet away from her, the blonde sighed, shrugging.

"Well," Barton's tongue clicked. "Yeah, I guess we got work to do."

...

The Soldier tried to kill them three hours after he was released from the cuffs.

Not that they would be _that_ stupid and naive, of course, because Barton had also secured a band ― another one of Stark's _special_ invention ― around his ankle before they did, which not only could track the Soldier's ass wherever he went, but was also near-indestructible (read: Hulk-proof), but still. Having your own knife pressed against your throat was _not_ fun, and Maria could vouch for this. Not like it hadn't happened before, a couple of times, actually.

But he didn't kill her, them. Couldn't.

"Soldier," Maria breathed, and from the corner of her eye, Barton was trying to stay calm ― no more joking around, Hawkeye's in the building ― and her fingers grasped on the steering wheel, thinking maybe this whole trip probably wasn't worth it. She almost sighed (―because seriously, besides from the obvious reason, she'd really thought she'd die in a better place than in a crappy car both the archer and her managed to steal because it _stinks_).

"_Steve_―" the Soldier exclaimed, then cringed, his hold on her knife wavered, but wasn't withdrawn and from the rearview mirror, Maria could see he was pinching the bridge of his nose. Barton didn't move, not a muscle. "Ugh―" a guttural sound escaped the Soldier, and the tip of the knife sunk into Maria's skin and her breath hitched in her throat. Maria's been in worse situations, seen her own blood before, but the element of the whole near-death-experience could still manage to rattle her, and this was one of the unfortunate times she was very startled. The Soldier groaned again, then proceeded to curse loudly in Russian, foreign words flying so fast Maria wasn't sure if she managed to catch what he'd said accurately.

Barton moved fast, and Maria swore her whole world was just a big blur for a minute.

Then the blond had his fist against the Soldier's throat and he's saying something and there's blood from the thin slice on Maria's throat, and before they knew it, Barton was hauling the Soldier to a bathroom stall that might as well had a dead animal buried in it, because, yes, it smelled _that_ bad, and Maria stood while the archer held Roger's long-lost friend over the toilet seat as he retched everything he's got into the toilet bowl. Maria wasn't sure if they flushed after.

"That," Barton knelt when the other man's done, flicking his finger over the dark-headed man's forehead. "Was for trying to murder us."

"I―" the Soldier could barely kept his eyes open, heads ducking down, harshly breathing out in between. "_Steve_."

"Yeah, yeah." The archer sighed, brushed his face then looked at her through the spaces between his fingers. "You okay?"

"I'll live." Maria responded, taking her knife back and securing it around her ankle safely. "I shouldn't have―"

"Yeah, you shouldn't have." Barton cut her off, giving her a sharp sideway glance, one he pulled a couple of times when she started SHIELD and the blond was just a few level clearance above her, and Maria knew fully well what it meant. She ducked her head, just slightly, and licked her upper lips ― _it won't happen again_ ― and Barton sighed, "but I've suspected that," he added, pushing the Soldier lightly, watched as the other man only glared, half-consciously, in return. "I swear to God if you try anything funny again, I'll break your fucking neck."

"Not if I'll break it first," Maria hissed, now pulling out a dirty napkin from Barton's lunch that afternoon and plastering over her bloodied skin, knowing that though it wasn't deep, it hurts like a bitch. She was tempted to just spend the whole night glaring at the Soldier, putting the blame on Rogers for everything else. But she couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't. Just like Barton shouldn't as well.

"At least he won't try to kill us again the next time," Barton muttered, then cringed when he spotted a dribble of vomit trailing down the Soldier's chin. "I think."

Maria rolled her shoulders, and walked out of the bathroom.

...

When the Soldier woke up from unconsciousness a few hours later, before dawn, all Maria heard was the clicking of a gun, trigger ready to be pulled, and from the corner of her eye, in the rearview mirror, Barton, who sat at the backseat with the Soldier now, was aiming it at the Soldier's head. "We're just trying to help our friend," the archer said. The crease between his brows was deep, making the little scars on his face looked old.

"I know," Maria heard the Soldier said, struggling. "I am sorry."

A tinge of deadly Russian accent, and Maria was so close (_so_ close she thought) to snapping.

"We don't need your apology," Barton said what she couldn't, and Maria kept on driving. "We need your help to find Cap."

Silence, and then: "I will."

The Soldier moved and Maria smirked when she heard him grunt at the cuffs they've bound around his ankles again.

...

The building was large and Maria suspected it was once truly, gloriously white. But it's grey now, and on one side of it was splattered with graffiti of a naked woman with large breasts and sharks around her and words strewn together in colourful paint that Maria couldn't translate quickly enough. Barton whistled when they drove past it, the Soldier just looked on, confused, and for a moment, Maria saw Rogers in the way he gazed, the Rogers back when he's still lost to the surroundings around him, the man who was once truly and completely out of time and was struggling dramatically to catch up. It was pitiful, and the bile at the back of Maria's throat tasted bitter.

"Is this where they're keeping Cap?" Barton asked, preparing his rifle. "You sure?"

The Soldier's face was grim when he nodded, and Maria's eyes glittered.

_Rogers_.

Something about the thought of seeing that (stupid, idiot, handsome) face again filled her with a sense of anticipation Maria wasn't certain she was capable of handling, but she wrapped her knuckles together and held herself with perfect posture. She'll see him soon. In time. For now, she'd just have to make sure she was ready for the battle to come, the blood she'll draw. They were men guarding the building, but nothing Maria hadn't seen before.

Maria released the Soldier from the cuffs and shoved a rifle at him, and he stared at her, quizzically, a look that said _are you sure_?

"Find Steve," was all Maria said, Rogers' given name coiling something in her chest.

They didn't find him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairings**: Developing Steve/Maria, featuring Clint/Maria/Bucky trio.  
**Word(s)**: 10,333 words.  
**Note**: So, my brain is having this kind of "problem" where it kept dragging this story until I'm not sure when I can stop it (and by _dragging_, I do mean there might be a _series_ out of this, which meant it would be separated into three stories with each having their own collection of chapters linking up together and I just don't know, man). Though, I could primarily assure you that the next chapter will, hopefully, will be the last. (I'm still not sure if I _will_ allow a series) Reviews, as usual, are extremely encouraging and dropping one would definitely make my day.

Shout-out to **Lynn**, my magnificent beta, for taking time out of her super busy schedule to clean up whatever English words I've butchered. May she have the best summer.

See the end of the chapter for more notes.

* * *

**Part III**

* * *

Blood, dust and just a hint of cigarette.

Maria had knocked down three men and shot six, and the Soldier was nowhere to be found. The hall was deserted when she peered around one corner, when there's a soft drop of feet against the ground and Maria turned, her trusty companion, her gun, aimed at her target only to be met with familiar smoky dark eyes. The Soldier.

"You okay there, Hill?" Barton's voice coming through her comm, and Maria pulled herself out of her shock, lowering her guard as the Soldier began to take his position, tip-toeing through the halls.

"I'm alive," Maria hissed back.

"Barnes there with you?"

Maria didn't answer with a yes or no. "He seems to know the place."

The archer grunted. "I would be surprised if he didn't." Barton was currently on the rooftop of a building a distance away where he could shoot with a view only he's accustomed to. He's safe where he was, Maria knew, and she will be, once she got Rogers and Wilson out of here.

_Are you sure this isn't a trap?_ She could almost Barton thinking, and Maria clenched her jaw, her steps deliberate when she moved forward, following where the Soldier was leading.

_If it's a trap, you'll know what to do_.

They always do.

...

Maria's head was slammed in the span of three minutes and it hurt more than it should. The large man that was currently swinging his arms around, placing his feet in front of the other, rushed, big and stupid, fat fingers reaching out to her, smelt distinctly of a man Maria knew named Artie. Artie was Dad's friend. He was skinny, lanky, with bright orange-y hair and even brighter, nastier yellow-y teeth. Between dodging the large man's swings and punching him hard in the ribs, Maria remembered of how Artie tried to touch her when she was nine. _Nine_. She grunted at the memory, proceeded to break the large man's kneecap, watched him dropped and thud against the floor, and felt satisfaction as he went down, rolled over and cry out in pain.

The large man quickly slipped into unconsciousness when Maria broke his wrists and ensured he wouldn't be moving anytime in the near future; and for that one quick moment, she forgot the true reason she was there.

(She had not forgotten Artie. But she had buried that memory deep down in the spaces between her more-than-once cracked ribs and kept it there until certain circumstances ― sometimes circumstances like _this_ ― forced it to resurface. She didn't bother remembering back to the hot, burning pain of Dad's hand across her back when he yelled, in shame, in embarrassment ― of the situation; of _her_ ― after she kicked Artie square in the crotch and sent the orange-y haired man on his way, saying something about a deal breaking off, making Dad mad, angry, _furious,_ which made the pain near-unbearable, torturous, when he slammed his palm across her spine, and― _no_. Maria won't remember that.)

There's blood trickling down from one of her ears as she limped to a lab down the hall to where she had last spotted the Soldier, only to walk through the door and discover a scene she didn't think she could ever get out of her mind: men were dead everywhere in the room, a mixture of blood, chemicals, and what might even be piss, splattered like dysfunctional art across the floor. The Soldier was standing in the middle of the room, his back to her, his front facing the only other soul alive in the room. She supposed she'd seen worse, but something horrible will continue to be something horrible, be it a bombed site when in the army, or the wreckage in New York a couple years ago, or simply a room filled with dead bodies in a lab― Maria recognized _bad_, and this was certainly not something good.

"Yes! _Yes!_" A doctor, Maria noted, or a scientist, clad in a white lab coat, cried out. Panic dawned in his wrinkled face, exposing his fright, and Maria's mouth curled ― in disgust, in anxiety? She barely had any idea ― but she stepped forward anyway, felt agitation tug on her skin as she did, just as the man blurted out: "I know where they are!"

_German_, Maria thought, when the doctor continued, blabbering on and slipping a few foreign words in and Maria finally became aware of the posture the Soldier was in: gun raised, shoulders squared, and in his other hand was an abandoned shield, one Maria knew so well― the familiar colors of red, blue and the eye-dazzlingly white star smacked in the middle of it ― and there was only one thought Maria managed to conjure up: _no_.

Before: _We need to get out of here_.

"Soldier," she called, finally moving.

He was not Bucky, not at the moment, Maria recognized this by now, approaching closer. And the gun clicked in his hand, "Tell me."

German words spilled out and the doctor was praying, crying, _begging,_ and Maria swallowed, because one wrong move, and the Soldier might be shooting _her_ instead of the doctor. There is just something nauseating about dying with the last image of the Winter Soldier holding Captain America's shield to himself, putting his mark on it_, claiming the damn thing as his own_. And Maria knew, though she'd probably choke herself from admitting it first, that she'd rather slit her own throat than accept anybody else holding the shield other than Rogers ― she won't die seeing the Soldier holding Captain America's shield. She's _refused_ to.

"Be specific," the Soldier demanded of the doctor, and it was not a surprise to learn that he understood German.

"It's in―" the doctor swallowed, shaking, _trembling_ like a pathetic leaves. "In the computer. Recent entry."

The Soldier's eyes narrowed, so did hers. "Go," and Maria realized the Soldier was ordering her. Wordlessly, she went, but the Soldier did not break his stance, and the doctor did not stop shaking. There was too much blood, she thought, too many dead bodies creating a stench. Some of the blood was even smearing on her shoes, and she briefly mused on the fact she'd only gotten the boots two months ago. They were new. To Maria, two-month old anything was new.

Thankfully, the computers were not damaged, and Maria worked quickly (was there any other way?) when the Soldier's next question came through, in a deep monotone, direct and harsh, "Is this the truth?"

"I will n-not lie!" The doctor yelped helplessly, throwing his hands up. "I swear." The smell of piss became stronger, but Maria refrained from cringing when the screen lit up and bunch of familiar codes tangled themselves together, greeting her like a lost lover. _Gotcha_. Her fingers tracked over the keyboard, gleefully satisfied.

"_Please_." The doctor said again, "Just let me go."

She could feel the Soldier's stare on her, but Maria didn't make the mistake of flinching.

"Got it." She exclaimed, hooking up a flash drive (they always kept one everywhere they went, Barton and her, just in case things like this occurred), and watching as it made its connection. She turned to look at him, over her shoulder, hoping the news could break him out of his Winter Soldier lapse, and for a moment, it seemed that it had. "I got it," she said again, confirming, _swallowing_, when the computer gave her a green light. All of the information they needed was where she needed it to be. _Good_. "Soldier, we need to―"

_BANG!_

The doctor could barely cry out when the bullet went in between his brows, striking his brain and then ― _BANG! BANG!_ ― two more hit him straight in the chest, right where her heart lied, silencing the older man as his body dropped, sliding against the wall, the life that was within him flickering away in his worn, bespectacled, grey eyes― his gaze roaming just seconds before he was utterly dead, staring at her, accusing her for the blood that wasn't in his veins and the brain that was probably splattering all over in his skull.

Maria stilled.

The Soldier watched, barely breathing.

"Hill?" Barton's voice managed through, and Maria brought herself out of her stupor, shaking her head inwardly. There was almost no doubt in Maria's beating heart that she'll be having dreams of the man's dead eyes, _nightmares_ if you will, but this wasn't the time to prepare for that. With the smell of piss mixing with blood and the distinct odor of sulphur wafting through the lab, Maria tucked the flash drive in the small pocket designed specifically for it, and had her gun up and aiming. The Soldier could still very well kill her, but she would at least put up a fight. "Soldier."

He did not move.

"Jesus," she muttered. "Barnes."

"That is not my name." He flinched, growled, and finally, slid a direct look towards her. He did not aim his gun, didn't twitch a muscle but it was enough of a pose to make something at the back of her spine crawled in unfamiliar fear.

"Don't move," she told him, somewhere a part of her body was swelling and throbbing dramatically, but she did not wince. Couldn't. "Drop the weapon and the shield. Step away." She cocked her gun when he growled further, one foot sliding just slightly behind himself. "Damnit Barnes, don't make me repeat myself."

"_You cannot kill me_," he told her, in perfect Russian.

That much was true, she knew, but― "I could try." And then, knowing she'd much prefer to see another day, she inquired, just for the heck of it, "Do you know who you are?"

"Do _you?_" He asked in English, mocking now, twirling the gun and balancing the shield, nearly smirking.

"_Yes_," she answered him tonelessly, first in Russian, then, catching her mistake, she switched to English, holding her chin higher, "You're Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, _Bucky_. Don't you remember that?"

His face immediately faltered, and his gun raised. "That is not―"

"We got him, Soldier― _Rogers_." She interrupted him, licking her upper lip in the fraction of a second. "We got Rogers. And Wilson. We've got their location. Now, are you in or are you out?" He was beginning to mutter to himself in Russian, wincing and gritting his teeth in pain as Maria realized he must be going through another one of his horrible headaches, shaking his head repeatedly to just focus his gaze on her. "Soldier," she called, "Damnit, Soldier. Don't give up on him now. The Captain is―"

"Steve?" the Soldier finally exclaimed, and something went _swoosh_ amid the chaos, and the tension vanished. Maria observed that he'd just lowered his gun, so swiftly the wind sung when it did, his expression even more confused than it was a minute ago. "He's..."

"He needs your help." She spoke with each word carefully enunciated, and he looked up. "Steve Rogers need your help."

"Is he okay?" Barton's voice was stoic through the comm, but Maria had known him long enough to know better. She didn't answer him.

"I remember you," the Soldier spoke with sad eyes, pondering the shield, chapped mouth set in a thin line. Maria wasn't sure if he was talking to the shield or her, but either way, she could easily concluded he was less likely to send a bullet through her skull. _Well_. "Is he―?"

"I secured their location. Wilson and Rogers." She informed him, not once wavering her aim; she didn't proceed to beg ―wasn't sure what to beg for if she was forced to really, because it's either she would die here or she won't, and Maria accepted that― but she held her stare, kept up her voice. There's no point in stuttering, no point in succumbing to the fate she couldn't determine. She won't let the Soldier defeat her, after all of the strength and dignity and respect she collected for herself, she won't die scurrying away just because an assassin from the 40s was having a mental breakdown. So, she didn't waver, and the gun continued to point.

...

After awhile, it was her who led them both out; once picking themselves up far enough and well enough to be secured, Barton came out of the shadows with a black eye but less beaten-up than either of them, and reached out to take the shield. The Soldier didn't resist. "Christ," he said to the other man. "Don't ever scare anyone like that again."

The Soldier didn't answer, Maria doubted he was able to, and kept it to herself when she thought: _we'll see_.

...

They drove for the next six hours straight, and, by the time they found a run-down motel that was secluded and quiet enough that no one would ask the obvious questions, the Soldier was already in a death-like sleep. They knew he wasn't dead because the Soldier's chest rose and fell in a very rhythmic manner, but they knew he was totally out because Barton "poked him about a thousand times", or so he claimed, and the Soldier had yet to carve the archer's eyes out with his metal fingers.

Maria was almost completely worn out.

But she stayed up for the next three hours, because there were messages to decode and a location to find, and phone calls to make (or else Tony panicked, and the last thing she wanted was for Iron Man to come along, because - just please, God - No) and she slept just as dawn arrived and it wasn't quite a two-hour nap when she woke up with the Soldier screaming and Barton throwing ice packs and freezing-cold water from the basin where the sink was leaking.

"What the _fuck_, Barton?" Her eyes were red and her head throbbed and the sunlight was too bright as it was reflecting off Barton's blond hair.

"I'm sorry," the Soldier said, dropping his chin, looking half-dead, face strewn in absolute remorse, stupid regret. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shut up," Maria found herself saying, pinching her temple.

"He saw the shield," Barton offered as an explanation, now holding the Soldier down with his knees securing the other man's wrists, and one hand clutching the Soldier's throat, his body straddling the guy's chest. "Had an episode," he elaborated.

"_Fuck_," was all Maria could offer back, because, _of course he had an episode_. Why wouldn't he? And why not at this friggin' hour of the morning? She shook her head. "Is he okay?"

"I'm _fine_," the Soldier growled, his dark hair now a mess of now wet and dripping strands. Maria could barely stomach the sight.

She pushed her own hair back, cursing privately. "I need a stick."

"Don't," the Soldier surprisingly interrupted. "The smoke. It's one of my..."

_Triggers_. Once again, she thought: _of course_. Why wouldn't it be a trigger, right. "For God's sake, Clint," she exhaled harshly, frustrated now and in pain, very much in pain. "Get off of him."

"You're one crazy town, my friend," the archer remarked, tugging recklessly on the Soldier's hair, letting out a lopsided grin when the former Sergeant glared heatedly in response. Maria hastily noted how the Soldier didn't correct Barton when he referred to him as friend. Maybe it was because it was too early, or everyone was just as messed-up, or maybe it was because the moment was too quick, it passed too soon, because before they knew it, Clint was crossing the room to change his pants, and Maria was rolling back in her bed pondering on how she really needed a damn stick.

They got out of the motel, stole another car, and drove for four hours until they reached the next seedy-looking motel.

...

"You're smoking," his voice was gruff when he greeted them.

Both Maria and Barton didn't flinch, or show surprise when the Soldier joined them on the small verandah, looking up at the stars now decorating the night sky. The cigarette between her teeth suddenly tasted a little too bitter, but she didn't cough, instead she inhaled another drag of the toxic smoke and felt it trickled down her trachea to strangle the clean air out of her lungs. Barton, working on a sudoku puzzle he got from a paper he had found on the floor when they entered the room (of course, he wasn't even _near_ close to finishing it really because for a highly trained agent, he was surprisingly talentless at solving puzzles), merely observed, "You aren't supposed to be out."

Maria, out of habit, let her gaze dropped to the wrists that was bound-free, no cuff in sight.

She guessed, somewhere along the way, although it was reckless as _fuck_, that all three of them were getting tired of seeing the Soldier in with such limited movements (not that it wasn't _bad_, mind anyone). Barton had finally convinced her to let him loose, and take the hideous, home-wrecking leap of faith to see if it'll kill them. It's only been two days since they had, let the Soldier loose she meant, and there hadn't been an incident where he tried to murder them again, so Maria supposed the blind leap they were taking was going well so far.

The Soldier _did_ appear to look more relaxed, less guarded now, even if she did try to deny it.

"There's a question..." The Soldier started, eyes flicking down unsurely, posture rigid but not in the way that would've alarmed both the agents. Maria took note of the way he tried to avoid the smoke she was now puffing out.

"A question?" Maria repeated, lips quirking in interest.

Barton tapped his pen against the puzzle he would probably never solve, glancing at the Soldier who was now shifting uncomfortably in place. Maria knew the archer was about to mention something along the line of, "What? You need help figuring out how to use a bathroom?" or "Did you just break another sink?" because there's that _annoying twinkle_ in his eyes when she passed him a glance, but the Soldier was quick to blurt out:

"You're not really Steve's girlfriend, are you?"

Barton stopped thudding the pen against the paper, shocked no doubt. Maria, though taken aback, didn't let it get to her ― well, not too obviously ― as she continued to drag the cancer stick from between her teeth to the edge of her lips, releasing the smoke carefully, deliberately, as though she'd suspected the question all along. "Smoke is one of your triggers, Soldier," she'd said instead, blinking once-twice at the Soldier, slipping on her Deputy Director mask.

"I'll handle it."

Maria pursed her lips.

Barton cleared his throat, moving his chair to include the Soldier, patting another rusted one by his side. "Sit."

The other man blinked, then obliged without a word, and Maria rubbed her nose with her index finger, the one that's helping to hold the cigarette in place. Through her thick lashes, she saw the hint of fire, burning the stick away. She sighed, sniffling a bit. "Let me tell you a story―" she began, rolling her shoulders, stretching her neck. The Soldier stilled, face mostly blank, but eyes wide like a child's expecting to be told a fairytale; one that might follow the child into sleep. But this was no child, and Maria certainly did not tell fairytales.

She took another drag, hesitating for a second, before her shoulders relaxed, her chest more-or-less lightened. _It's just words_, she convinced herself, rocking on the balls of her feet.

"There is a girl back home. Her name is Sharon. Don't know much about her, but she once worked with us. A good agent― strong-minded, stubborn, knows how to take care of herself. Blonde, sharp eyes; _pretty_― you know the type." She licked her lips, brushing her other hand to her cheek, swiping off invisible dust, eyes now focus on the dull scenery. Maria blinked. "For the past two years she was with SHIELD, she was assigned to... _guard_ Rogers at his apartment, posing as a nurse, a friendly neighbor. Just, _watch_, you know? Keep an eye out, because an organization like ours practices paranoia, and you just never know with a super soldier, now do you?"

There was a bitter joke there at the end, one she did not allow neither Barton nor the Soldier to point out as she continued quickly, exhaling, "Anyway, every month she'd submit her report, just like she was ordered to, pretending to be this _nurse_ living right next door to this, I suppose, living legend. SHIELD wasn't blind. The infatuation was silly, but these things do happen. And underneath the tough exterior, she was just another girl. We _are_ allowed to feel human." _Experience emotions_. Maria briefly promised herself she wouldn't gag, sinking her teeth momentarily into her inner cheeks before continuing. "When SHIELD went down, and Rogers and Wilson went MIA, I went to her. She's with CIA and would be able to get information quicker than I could on my own. I needed to be sure before I confronted Tony about Wilson and Rogers' status. All I had to do was give her one look, and I knew."

Maria's chest suddenly felt heavy, but she dragged her gaze away before Barton could catch on what was going through her head― not that it mattered, because Maria was _Maria_. She'll be okay. She'll force herself to be okay― she always does. "The hope that was in her eyes when she gave me the information, the _faith_ I saw in her expression when she told me to go after Rogers and Wilson... that wasn't simply _nothing_. I think..." Maria speculated, flicking her eyes down, her mind secretly whirling when her lips were pressed together, "I think, that is something worth coming back home to. To Rogers, at least." Her eyes rested on the Soldier, at long last, determine and strong, firm and true, "_You_ are something worth coming back home to."

Confusion bled across the Soldier's poor, dirty face; his brows furrowing in and out of concentration before he tipped his head back up and let his now sharp eyes travel to hers, "So who are you in all of this? Who are you to―" He swallowed, and his focus wavered but wasn't broken, "―to the Captain?"

Maria exhaled through her nostrils, dropping her cigarette down to the cement slab and taking her boot to step on it, extinguishing the flame once and for all. The smoke left a thin trail up into the atmosphere, reminding Maria of the lungs that suffered from it, now writhing from within her ribcage. The fear of death crept in but it did not threaten. Not anymore.

"Well, Barton's Cap's friend." She said, one shoulder shrugging in a reluctant manner; she passed a quick look to meet the Soldier's eyes, and her poise did not waver, her eyes didn't blink. She replied, "I'm just the person who'll be making sure he _does_ come home."

Maria didn't say that her teeth tasted just a bit staler at her own words.

(She, as usual, blamed the cigarettes.)

...

Maria didn't quite smoke anymore after that.

...

Turned out, the location was a fake.

And they found this out from Tony four days later.

Barton went out for a whole night of drinking after failing to contact Natasha - yet again - and came back smelling like cheap beers and vomit. The Soldier growled as he entered, sidled to the middle of the room to avoid getting near him, and Maria hissed when the archer slurred, before he threw his phone straight through the glass, face red and frustrated. "Clint," Maria called, clenching her jaw. "Calm down."

She watched as Barton stole a glance towards the Soldier, and almost on automatic, the Soldier blurted out― "The shattered glass won't trigger me."

They didn't know that. She frowned.

Maria allowed the archer to shower and sleep for the next hour, before she forced the Soldier to haul him into the truck they stole and drove away. "Will he be alright?" The Soldier asked, posture wary and careful, eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt on trying to stay focused, accent twisting from Russian to English and sometimes even German or Danish.

"He's an idiot," Maria retorted her usual mantra, hiding the wince as a headache ate at the back of her skull. Chancing a sideways glance, noticing how the Soldier's shoulders only tensed in response, she managed a nod while she drove them towards no where in particular: "He'll be fine. It's just one of those bad days. We'll live through it."

"And Natasha? She is―"

"A friend." Maria answered, tone cutting and direct.

"Friend?" The Soldier sounded mostly confused, as though the concept of it was alien to him, and Maria could see the pieces of his memory broken and battered, bent and abused, laid out in front of her, surprisingly exposed and fragile. There was an ache in her chest, because if there was anyone who was supposed to be familiar with the topic, it was _him_. Maria didn't grow up having a best friend― she has allies, people she trusts, a dead husband and enemies, but not friends. Barton's been so long in SHIELD that friends became an absolutely grey subject; too many people turning their backs on him, leaving unnecessary scars, evil truths; it was amazing how he was still in one piece - how everyone present right then was still in one piece. But _the Soldier_ ― Barnes, Bucky, or whatever ― _friends_ weren't supposed to sound so awkward and new.

She took a moment to wonder how Rogers might have reacted to this.

"An ally." She rephrased, using a better word, hoping it'll untie the knot of confusion now tangling itself behind his eyes. "We trust her," she said as a further explanation, clearing the air. "We don't know where she is."

"Can't Stark track her?" The Soldier didn't know Stark, but they had come across a video clip of him when they went into a diner the day before, and he knew that Barton and her were somewhat reporting to him, though they made it _perfectly clear_ that the billionaire was not, in any way, in charge of them. (He was her boss, _sure_ ― but not in this case.)

"When she doesn't want to be found," it wasn't much of a question, more of a snarky retort as the sentence rolled off her tongue. She didn't give him a glance when she as a sharp turn, cursing inwardly in between, "No."

The Soldier was quiet for a while, tapping his metal finger against the window gently, releasing a continuous _tap-tap-tap_ that Maria, shockingly, didn't find to be annoying. "Will we find―" the Soldier began, voice suddenly stuck in his throat and from the corner of Maria's eyes, she watched him swallow unsurely, regressing back to the lost boy when he was neither Bucky Barnes nor the Winter Soldier, simply a man who was confused, on edge. and paranoid. Scared too, if he'd allow it. "― the Captain?"

"We will." Maria answered with such conviction; she herself was momentarily caught off guard by it. But she didn't retract it, didn't sag her shoulders when she could, didn't undermine the utter confidence welling in her chest, because Maria, as stupid as it sounded, didn't want to think of other possibilities than finding Rogers alive and breathing. Wilson too, because Maria spent a good deal of time with the man when they were bringing HYDRA down, and needless to say, she didn't outright hate him. Not immediately, not afterwards.

"_Tired_," the Soldier muttered, surprisingly in Japanese.

Maria clicked her tongue, "We all are."

...

The third time Clint pulled the ridiculous stunt of getting majorly drunk and _stupid_, Maria nearly drew a knife right against his throat.

Instead, she took all three of them out to an empty piece of property and had them spar until the day grew dark and the sun left the sky. She was out of breath when they were done, twisted in Barton's grip while the Soldier's ribs shook with laughter, the _relief_ in just punching and kicking without any _killing_ must have gotten into him, and for the first time in a long time, Maria wasn't afraid to join in. She didn't laugh of course, but the grin on her face was apparent and clear. It didn't quite match Barton's who had his lips stretched _so_ wide, Maria wasn't sure if his face _wouldn't_ split― while the Soldier smiled with his lips and in his eyes, brightening the shadows that Maria and Barton saw so many times ghosting over the lines on his expression.

"You, my man," Clint said, still gasping oxygen for his desperate lungs, eyes glinting mischievously, watching the Soldier, grinning, "―are a _killing_ machine."

Maria wasn't sure if it was a pun, but when Hawkeye proceeded to laugh and clasped an arm around the Winter Soldier's shoulders, before he _finally_ noticed it and growled, she didn't miss the somber flick of emotion flashing across the Soldier's eyes. But the smile never vanished. Not completely. "I believe we're _all_ killing machines," the Soldier countered, as they all limped back to the truck, now watching the stars shimmering in the distance.

Maria snorted as Barton passed her a water bottle, but didn't roll her eyes: "Nowadays," she replied. "Who isn't?"

She didn't get an answer, but the night was undoubtedly (shockingly noticeably) beautiful, and Barton was, at long last, _sober_ after what seemed like too long. It was, she decided later as they hitched back to their motel, better than most days.

...

They found Rogers on a Tuesday.

...

But that was it. Just Rogers. Battered and worn-down, spirit broken and maybe half-blind (according to Barton anyway, before both Maria and the Soldier swatted him across the back of his head for being such a freaking idiot), but it wasn't until Thursday that they set their plan in motion. The Soldier was anxious, Barton was thrilled, and Maria was more forgiving than she was ready to lash out. It was terribly heart breaking to monitor the Captain but not be able to reach out, having to watch a super-soldier being tied down and beaten so raw that he barely moved in the days since they confirmed his location.

"Still no sign of Wilson?" Barton asked, cleaning his arrows for perhaps, the tenth time that hour.

Maria blinked, didn't bother shaking her head. "He's not here. He might have been. Someone must have taken him."

"Is it HYDRA?"

"I think it was," The Soldier suddenly spoke up, sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a fitted uniform gifted from Stark (that was originally meant for Barton on this trip), flexing his metal fingers in order. "I have no idea what their plan is, but I do not like it."

"Does anybody ever?" Barton murmured under his breath while Maria picked herself up and readied the guns and rifles (also prepared especially by Stark, although nothing was ever complete if Maria didn't bring one or two of her own). _Who would've thought it, huh_, a bitter side of her snarled, annoyed and not, tired and awake― someone's actually _selling_ Captain America. Speaking of extreme human trafficking.

She checked her gun magazine. "Whatever happens, stick to the plan," she ordered, sliding it back into her pistol.

"I would prefer if everybody actually manages to come out alive." Barton quipped dryly, wiggling his fingers.

"I will carry the shield?" The Soldier asked, eyes dark but composed. No sign of being triggered, which was good. It was always good. Maria stole a glance at Captain America's proud shield now lying amongst Barton's equipment, and her mind whirled before she could stop it. She passed a cool nod, brushing her growing bangs behind.

"But follow the plan, Soldier." The shield will be Rogers' by the end of the day, no matter what. That was the ultimate deal.

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded swiftly, shoulders squaring in a posture from the past; of Sergeant James Barnes, one of the war heroes; of Bucky, who's ready to fight for the only thing he's sure of, although of course, no, the Soldier _didn't_ know what he was fighting for. Not particularly. But his objectives were clear ― secure the Captain, secure himself ― and so Maria didn't dwell on the major breakthrough in how he answered her.

"Good." His eyes were sharp; hers were sharper. "Let's go get our good ole Captain back."

...

Maria couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken in Arabic, but she greeted the language like an old friend when it glided over her tongue and passed her lips. She felt different when the fabric of her clothes stuck to her flesh like a second skin, the make-up shading her cheeks into a personality that she was not. This moment she was Diana, "The Jasmine", a.k.a. the buyer of none other than Captain America. This was not, by any means, her first time going in undercover, so Maria strapped on her heels and put on her best show, because, though she _hated_ being anyone but herself, this really wasn't about her.

When they brought Rogers out, Maria felt her heart leap to her throat, and her chest constrict at the mere sight of him.

He didn't look up― too tired, too worn-down? She couldn't be sure ― but Bucky, now dressed like one of the guards in the room, was by Roger's side, steady and cool, and Maria managed a sigh of satisfaction, her head turning seductively, addressing the man in charge, tongue cheeky in the foreign language Maria secretly admired. "_May I?_"

The man nodded, gesturing.

Her heels clicked with each step she took, and the nearer she got, it seemed the more the Captain tried to look down, chin now pressed against the hollow skin where his collarbones met. Something twisted dangerously, _drastically_, in her stomach, tempting the hideous anger Maria solely inherited from her father to flare and consume her. The Soldier met her eyes only for a second, just enough for Maria to give a subtle nod. They worked silently as she walked by, bracing herself to face Rogers, even though yes, he still wasn't lifting his chin up.

Now so close, Maria couldn't help feeling that they were the farthest apart as they've ever been.

And that was saying a lot considering Maria was never _close_ to the man in the first place. Stupid.

"Captain," she dared herself to whisper, slim fingers grasping his unshaven jaw, but he still wasn't looking up. He didn't know her, Maria realized, a moment after, as her thumb traced a cut that would probably heal in less than two hours. Maria wasn't sure if she should compliment her undercover job or feel devastatingly sad that he, well, _didn't recognize her_. She didn't let herself meditate on it as she placed her mouth close and blew gently across his golden lashes, urging him to open his eyes. He did, glaring at first, before his striking blue eyes drank her in and―

Allowing a small smirk to grace her features, Maria mouthed: "Got you."

The kiss they shared afterwards was chaste and appropriate, if only because Maria knew how disastrous it would be if _Captain freaking America_ managed to blow their covers, if recognition lit up his face, or her name, her title, threatened to fall off the tip of his tongue oh-so-obviously. So she kissed him. To make sure that he somehow didn't make the glorious mistake of out rightly recognizing her, and only because it's something Diana "The Jasmine" would've done. (Barton called her character as The Hot Babe That Isn't Afraid to Kiss and Tell and Kick Some Asses, "which," he bravely added a second later, "I suppose, kind of like you are Hill, except Diana isn't afraid to beg when she wants some―" and the rest, as they say, is history.)

Maria, of course, had kissed better ― Rogers too, she hadn't a doubt ― but to say that the kiss was just as mechanical as it was supposed to be, then she'd be lying.

She wondered if he could taste the orange juice she had had that morning.

And then, as easily as it begun, everything resolved into complete chaos.

Everything was happening too fast for Maria to keep track. Before she knew it, she gave the signal and the Winter Soldier proceeded to destroy most of the men inside of the building before Maria felt a blow to her side and she fell, _fell like a little girl who'd just learned how to walk_, and saw Rogers being dragged into the shadows. She tried to reach out, kicked a few guys that were in her way, but her vision was filling with black spots and she was gasping for air; and suddenly, it was like her lungs had decided they were tired of being lungs, and her insides twisted as though they didn't want to stay inside of her any longer and so she cried out for the Soldier before she could fall again - fall for good this time. _Remember_, the alarm in her head insisted, _stick to the plan_ ― just as Barton came in, shooting arrows and bullets, passing the almighty shield to the Soldier so the plan could fall into place.

The Soldier clasped the shield, didn't admire it, glanced at her, and knew what he had to do.

"I'll be fine", she gritted through gritted teeth, still fighting away the pain.

He nodded and went into the shadows, just as she was quick enough to clutch her gun, and shoot two guards that were coming for her, or her body, and then her head thudded against the floor and the dark consumed her and Maria's last thought rang tiredly: _well, at least it wasn't in the car_.

Everything fell silent and still.

...

Maria couldn't remember the last time she had a solid dream.

She had nightmares, too many of them, trailing behind her like footsteps visible enough for her to trace back and draw dad's sad-but-always-angry eyes. (Maria couldn't _draw_ them of course ― she couldn't draw to save her life ― but she remembered them like the scars along the back of her spine, under her armpits, behind her calves. Maria remembered them like her own name, like a memory of a child – her tiny self running and not-crying, sniffling and not-silently screaming for help, like a secret she vowed to keep; she remembered and remembered and remembered―)

But a _dream_.

She hadn't had one of those in forever. It was little feet running and searching and finding, and breathless chest and wide eyes and a young heart but an old soul, and Maria standing by the sideline as she watched herself grew from nothing into whatever pieces she managed to glue herself to be. She saw an Uncle that picked her up when she was at her lowest when she hadn't expected him to, the teacher that told her the future could be anything and everything she wished it could be, the boy that was convinced she was stronger than she believed, the girl that she couldn't save but had saved _her_ instead, and finally, she saw herself, facing the Avengers, alive and laughing.

It took them a while before everyone finally directed their attention to her, and Nick Fury stepped forward from out of nowhere. She didn't recall any greetings being passed, but she recognized the routine, the nod of acknowledgement passing in comfortable silence. She stood like she was meant to be there, facing the world head-on and fearless.

"It feels like falling, don't it?" A happy, guttural, all-too-familiar voice chuckled, and Maria's eyes twitched upwards, as though expecting her Uncle, the one who'd said the exact same thing to her once upon a time, to be looking down, eyes glinting behind the dark shades he used to wear. "When you're smack in the middle of things, going at it like the universe is there to back you up."

One thing was for sure― her Uncle _wasn't_ around. But that was definitely his voice, his words. Maria would know it anywhere.

"Falling is not an apt description," she said what she hadn't told Uncle before, mouth set in a grim line, eyes somewhat glaring at Fury and the lot of them, as though her life's burden was their doing. "It feels like," her tongue clicked, her mind reeled: "Like flying."

"Flying's a fantasy, Hill." Barton surprisingly interrupted, and Maria was quick to catch Rogers glancing the archer's way, genuine concern shaping his usually clear expression.

"Falling..." Her Uncle's voice continued, and Maria closed her eyes, imagined one old shoulder shrugging. "Well," there's humor to his tone, but it's not visible on his none-existent face, "Everything meets its end. _Falling_, eventually, will have you meeting the ground. And aren't you content with meeting the ground?"

_Meeting her end?_

Maria blinked, just as Romanoff took two quiet steps towards her, eyes frowning. "Say no, Maria."

_But Uncle's right_, was all she could think off, meeting the famous Widow's stare.

"He's right," Romanoff nodded, looking to the side, to nothing, nodding absent-mindedly at her apparent agreement. She locked her gaze on Maria again, and something in her green eyes glinted. "But this isn't the end just yet. You know it."

_I do_, she nodded, shifting her posture sideways. "But what if I'm tired of falling? What if I _want_ to meet my end?"

"You don't." Rogers suddenly spoke up, and Maria caught his blue eyes under the flickering lights ― she saw Coulson instead, and the mum she never met, the husband that died way too soon, and all of their lives, as they flickered before her eyes, until all she saw was one corner of a mouth turned into a small, amusing smile, and Maria found herself facing Captain America, his mask off, his face dirtied and worn. "You're not done catching _my_ fall, Hill, you aren't done saving _me_."

Maria resisted a _fuck you, Rogers_ because really, fuck _him_, Captain America can very damn well save himself without her help whatsoever, and then Maria's back to the first moment SHIELD had found her, Phil Coulson's smile sticking like a post-it note behind her head with Thor and Stark's laughter echoing on repeat, Bruce's shy grins an image shimmering in the sun.

"He's right, you know." The Soldier ― no, _Barnes_' ― dipped his head in a low nod, his hair slicked back and short like she remembered from Rogers' file, and from the many pictures of him. He smirked in her direction, and Maria cocked an irritated scowl, confused, but not, because while he shouldn't _be here_, dressing like _he did_, there he was, fitter and smaller and cleaner than the Soldier he became. "Wake up, Maria. You're not done falling just yet."

And what do you know? She wasn't.

...

"Fuck it, Maria." Barton laughed when she came to, and she frowned at his abrupt outburst. "You didn't die. You didn't die. Jesus Christ, you didn't― Oh, thank God! 'Cause Pepper and Nat would have my head if you'd― _fuck_."

_Shut up_, was what Maria contemplated saying, but receiving an awful jab in her side as she tried to move, Maria winced instead, coughing horribly in the way that reminded her again how all of the smoking she'd done _wasn't_, in any way, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself, good for her health. "What happened?" She managed.

Barton was still laughing as she asked him, his hand holding the left side of her ribs in a steady manner, the corner of his eyes stinging with tears. They were on a roof somewhere, she realized, and it was near nightfall. The sky was fading into grey, but the stars were twinkling, bright and clear and proud. She wondered how many hours since she'd been out.

"Well," the archer managed, "There was an _explosion_."

_Wasn't there always?_ Barton seemed to be scoffing too, perhaps thinking of the exact same thing. She'd finally noticed how, lying down, Barton's apparent contact on her ribcage was necessary ― he was keeping her still, from moving about. Her wound must largely be confined to there, although as she was now, her whole body seemed to be pulsating and throbbing, like every part of her was electrocuted and dissected. "Cap got his shield back, kicked some ass. You know how it goes. Then Soldier brought him out just seconds before the building went _ka-boom!_ And though I _know_ the plan was to secure the primary targets, which was Cap and our favorite Russian lunatic, but… I turned back for you."

"I was out?"

"For most of it, yeah." The blond didn't look particularly annoyed, but there were the gestures he's making that could easily contradict itself to that statement. "Something knocked you, and they hit you pretty good. _Add_ to the already-devastating events, you were bleeding out. _And_ a building was about to collapse on you. Wanna add that to your perfect record, Commander?"

Maria resisted an eye-roll. "Shut up."

He let out a string of hollow chuckles. "Fuck it, Hill. You were as good as dead."

"Yet you turned back and _got me_." She quoted, and knew he wouldn't miss the irritation heavily dripping in her tone.

"I wasn't about to leave you. We go a long way back," he mentioned casually, lifting the hand that was holding her in place to comb through his now-scruffy hair, messy and ashen with white matter. "Plus, I got too many things haunting me. I'll be damned if I'll add you as another ghost."

Her bones vibrated, and, before she knew it, despite the pain, her whole chest choked up with strangled laughter rumbling straight from her stomach, one birthed from extreme relief, gladness, over the sure knowledge that, numb and all, she was alive. Well and okay, if she's lucky, with all of her limbs attached. "Goddamn, Clint," she forced her right hand to move, brushing over the eyes that were filling up with solid, genuine, ugly tears. "You're such a fucking idiot."

"Says the bitch," the blond sputtered, with a helpless grin spread across his near-torn up face, and Maria's eyes glanced over the blood smearing from under his jaw to his neck. He chuckled, and she hid a wider smile. "Now come on. If Soldier follows the plan―"

"They're near."

"That _is_," Clint said as he slid one hand on her ribs, the other reaching to her back to help her sit up. "If he doesn't blow his top just yet."

_Let's hope he doesn't_, Maria huffed, grunted and pulled herself up.

...

By the time they arrived at the motel where they promised to meet, Barton's hand that was grasping Maria's ribs were soaked in her hideous, stinking blood. Not that the archer in any way complained, and not that Maria was saying anything either, considering the guy smelled like he hadn't showered for a _month_. They've been in worse situations, she reasoned, and that was enough for both of them to overlook whatever situation they're entangled in right now.

They didn't even reach the door when the Soldier swung it open, eyes wide and brighter than Maria's ever seen them, jaw tight and mouth a perfect flat line across his face. "Hill. Barton." He breathed, and their names sounded like a prayer against his tongue, holy and sacred. Maria didn't find herself cringing.

Barton chuckled out breathlessly, mouth breaking into a wide, exhausted grin. "Crazy Town," he quipped, and against Maria's side, the archer's shoulders sagged, relieved.

"The Captain is bleeding." The Soldier sounded panicky, but his hands extended to reach for Maria, and she, without thinking twice, offered one arm to him, stumbling only slightly.

"He's not the only one," Barton exchanged, licking his lips as they three fell into step, Maria now leaning equally on both of them, her side throbbing mercilessly.

"Clint? Hill?" A familiar-but-distant voice came from inside of the motel just as they stepped in. Barton turned a little to the side to get the door closed, securing it afterwards. Just as the Soldier was settling Maria on the nearest chair, he muttered, "The Captain has been shot," right as Rogers walked in, one hand holding a bloodied area on his right chest, near his armpit.

"Fantastic," Maria's voice laced with dangerous sarcasm, and for a moment Captain America appeared rattled, unsteady.

"Cap," Clint now stood in the middle of the room, having both of his hands up. "You okay?"

Rogers rolled his head, and tilted one corner of his mouth up ridiculously and not entirely sincerely, "Never better."

_Sarcastic little_― Maria gritted her teeth, stomped down her annoyance when she hissed, louder than she intended to, as she grabbed her bleeding side, reminding herself maybe the sudden move to snap herself into Hardass Hill was probably not be the best idea she had ever had. "Bathroom. Now," she bit out, and the three men marched behind her like it was just natural to do so.

They worked in a primarily sufficient quietness when Barton pulled out a knife in his boots and cuts off Rogers' shirt when Maria signaled the larger man to have a seat. He didn't object, but flinched when the tip of the knife nearly tore at perfectly good, firm skin. Maria's eyes definitely did _not_ linger.

Apparently, Barton had her stitched up on the damaged area (except of course, she managed to open up the clumsy stitches― hence, the excessive bleeding) and Maria skillfully stitched it up with meticulous concentration, while Barton worked to pull out the damn bullet from Rogers' chest, the man wincing and flinching in between breaths. She cleaned up and bandaged herself tightly just when the bullet thudded against the sink as Barton secured it, prompting Maria to glance towards the men's way and noticed the way Rogers' blood was creating a trail down to his stomach, thin and messy.

Maria stood and walked to them, fully aware that she was only in her sports bra, bandaged torso and boyshorts and not knowing that it _mattered_ until Rogers took one look at her and bashfully looked away, cheeks reddening by the second. Barton, glancing once over his shoulder, looked unfazed and Maria coolly blinked: "Okay?"

"We're good to go."

The archer nodded.

The Soldier walked in, face blank, paused and let his eyes trail carefully over her bandaged side and new bruises without a second thought, which caused a look of horror to pass over Rogers' chiefly innocent face, warning, "Bucky."

The Soldier's eyes snapped.

Perhaps it was the name, or, the name _and_ Rogers. Then, because things just couldn't continue in peace (for once), the combination of the name, Rogers _and blood_ (to which they discovered was the next thing on his list of triggers) had his head "haywire" (Barton's words) and his whole body malfunctioned when the Soldier failed to take a step back, both hands pressing on his temples, mouth opening and closing and murmuring in brutal Russian.

Barton was quick to turn on the shower, all the way on cold, and both of them hauled the Soldier under the spray with Maria using just enough force to pin him there, thrashing about and struggling. It wasn't long before the Soldier dropped his chin and gave in, and breathlessly, with his eyes closed, muttered in perfect, good old American English: "I'm okay, I'm fine."

"Bucky?" Rogers' tone was just shy of a quiver, and Maria snapped him a terrifying look.

"I've got Soldier," Barton announced, helping the dark-headed man up to his feet, pulling out a worn towel out or two that they'd put aside earlier. "Can you help Cap?"

Frankly, Maria was still pretty pissed at the Captain but, "Sure," because she really didn't need to step out into the cold half-naked and have some kind of heart-to-heart with the Winter-freaking-Soldier, and she guessed there were things she needed to find out from the Golden Boy. So, Maria watched Barton flip the towel over the Soldier's face, and watched the dark-headed man glared as the blonde grudgingly led them both out.

The door shut.

Rogers shifted.

Maria held in a sigh, biting her inner cheek, recalling back that _oh, that's right―_ _you've never exactly been the best of buddies with this man, wow Maria, smart, that's an excellent quick thinking right there_. She rejected the snarky noise, pushed a dark strand of hair away, and moved quickly to snatch a clean-enough t-shirt that should cover her top quite nicely, since, you know, she was half-wet from the damn shower. She pulled her hair behind to catch it in a ponytail just as she caught his wondering gaze in the reflection of the cracked mirror. "Sit. I'll stitch it up for you," and he did, because there wasn't much else to say or do.

He could have done it by himself. Sure, she could allow that, but― she won't.

Maria pulled out the kit and rubbed the side of her face, pondering, before she found her pace once again and pulled out the necessary tools. The soldier wasn't particularly looking at her when she turned to begin. Instead, he had his gaze focused on the floor, frowning, probably from the recent drastic events. "He's going to be okay," Maria assured him, and found herself immediately regretting ever saying anything, because, _once again_, a heart-to-heart or whatever? Definitely not her style.

She swallowed, and his blue eyes finally met her face.

"Chin up," she instructed and he tilted his chin upwards, thrusting his chest up for her to assess. _Okay_.

"Sam's gone," he told her, even before _she_ could blurt the words out.

She nodded professionally, sterilizing the needle. "Killed?"

"Taken." His face paled a little, eyes wide and heavy with blind panic at her implication, before it slumped in a sort of rejection, disappointed and guilty. "One minute he was there, the next..." He swallowed, shaking his head. "I don't know what happened. They... the _guards_, they injected me with a serum that deflated my abilities, all of them. I could barely breathe. It was like... it was like I was the Steve before the serum. Except it was worse, and there wasn't―" and his brows furrowed, Maria could see, _hard_. "There wasn't anybody strong enough to pull me out of it."

_Lucky you aren't dead_, she nearly quipped before she held her tongue, gritting her teeth. "You have no idea of his location?"

"They wouldn't tell me anything. Well, they _did_. They just..." his mouth pursed, "They made fun of me. I think. I don't... we didn't really have a way of communicating."

Ah. Language problem.

Maria offered another nod. "So we have no idea if he's really... _alive?_"

"Don't say tha―" Rogers paused, mouth agape, face as lost as he was over two years ago, back when he was just defrosted. Something in Maria twisted at _that_ sight of him; eyes glassy, hands quivering, nose red. "He's alive."

"Rogers."

"No." He defended, "A man came one day. I can't... I don't really remember his face, I was under the influence, but he told me―" He gasped, his chest expanded in search of air, as though the oxygen in the room wasn't enough and he needed more. He _simply needed more_. "He told me Sam's alive, and they've got plans for him but... that's about it. I couldn't, I wasn't―" He stuttered, posture cracking as the minute lengthened, "And then you came. And Clint and..."

_You're going into shock_, she didn't say.

"Captain?"

"This..." he began, uncertain, nose crinkling from thinking too hard. "Has this happened before? To _Bu_... to..." and Maria finally understood that he was referring to the Soldier's latest episode, shoulders slumping. _God_, Maria realized, stomach sinking, _he can't even say the guy's name_.

"Has it happened before? More times than I care to remember." She sharply answered, hoping that that would shut him up.

Rogers blinked, golden lashes fluttering, once-twice, and then: "He doesn't even call me _Steve_."

Maria's eyes watched his face, her face grim. "It's better than nothing."

Their eyes locked, but Maria made a point of keeping her eyes up because it would not be in her nature to look away, like _she's embarrassed or something,_ because she undoubtedly _wasn't_, not even when the blue eyes were starting to get too intense for her whole mental state to take, but he dragged his gaze down a few seconds later, a sigh escaping his lips as Maria punctured his flesh and tidied up the stitches. "I guess," he murmured, brushing a dark blond eyebrow before fingers tangled messily with long strands of dyed brown hair.

"Frankly speaking, Captain." She forced out before her brain could calibrate on what a mistake _that_ was, and clenched her jaw. "_Better than nothing_ is all you can expect right now. I'd suggest you don't give up. I mean. You _can't_ anyway." Not when they practically have the Soldier in custody, almost.

Rogers twisted his lips to form what resembled a smile but wasn't quite, eyes squinting ever so slightly at her in a thoughtful manner, like he's just seeing her for the first time and it was a sight that he couldn't digest immediately. "I wasn't planning to."

"And Wilson." She finished the stitches, dropping the needle and thread in the sink. "We'll find him. Strategically and with a _plan_, preferably, if you may."

He nodded his head, rubbed at his mouth. "No arguments here, ma'am."

She scowled; his lips curled into more of a smile. "Okay," she decided, putting the kit away.

"Hill?"

"Captain?" Her gaze was cool when she whirled her head to him, a hum rested at the end of her response.

"Thank you."

She doesn't ask for _what_, wasn't sure if she would like the answer since there was a fuckton of things Rogers should be thanking her for, and there's more to come, no doubt, which kind of put her in the position to be receiving a whole lot of thank you's in the future. Lord knew Maria didn't need that, especially not from a certain super soldier, America's Proudest Protector and Living Legend. You want to thank? Buy her a goddamn drink. You don't _sit there_ with your puppy blue eyes and a half-sad expression and say _thank you_. Like, who even _does_ that?

"Just take a goddamn shower already, Rogers." She ground out without flinching her disgust, without even as much as a nod, which seemed to satisfy everybody in the room because he must know that that was all she could offer back, and that there wasn't much left to say and it's always been like that between them, she supposed, because she's just the errand girl carrying her part in the equation, to get him back home, and he's Captain goddamn America and, by the end of the day, they're just two separate individuals stuck in the same situation whilst doing their job. There's nothing more. There shouldn't be.

Plus, to add, she's never excelled at handling any form of gratitude more than it was necessary. She's detached like that, and she's okay with it.

Rogers didn't argue.

She shut the bathroom door and let the sound of it echoed until she heard nothing except the dull repetition of _thud-thud-thud_ carrying through the door even when the shower started to run.

...

* * *

**IMPORTANT NOTE**:

Though I am grateful for **Lynn**, my beta, for always being there when I needed her the most, I realise that with summer picking up and with tons of things life could offer to get in one's way, she can no longer be the only beta I have available. With this, I'm reaching out to any of you **who are interested in becoming my beta**: just PM me, or reach out to my tumblr [_puckering-gustin_], which you could find the link on my FFNET profile.

Thank you, and may you have an excellent day.


End file.
